Excerpt From "A Man With Glasses" - The Meaning Of Life Is To Find Meaning In It

April 23, 2016

So I ran, and this time my clothes stayed on and I was not looking back. I had escaped again, with no destination in mind. Occasionally I would venture into the odd restaurant and ask for a cup of water. I played in the dirt, and was envious of the ants, whose version of heaven seemed so much bigger than mine could ever be in comparison. I ran through traffic and attempted to enlighten strangers with a simple hello. I even placed and bathed my hands in the water of a restaurant toilet bowl, for faith had me convinced that such an act of letting go would be the way to finding holy water.

 

I sprawled out on the ground carving an O around me, with nothing but a small rock in my hand. I needed an audience. I needed to convince others to open their mind. I had to be seen. I had to be heard.

 

I had found heaven, and it was right here, presently on earth, sheltered by a universe as infinite as its creation. My mind, though finite, would unlock the mystery of life, death, heaven and hell, in a universe that gives life the choices and chances to experience all of the above. But I had one major problem. I was the only person who realized that.

 

I had to be heard. And so my journey continued, and even with God’s voice in my head, I felt so alone, and I missed my dad. I walked with squinted eyes that could barely see, as tears rolled down my cheeks. But as I walked my surroundings began to get very familiar. I, was almost home.

 

I prayed that I would go home. I prayed that I would see my mom and dad again. Over and over I prayed, as my feet brought me every step closer. I asked God, my Inspiration, and in that moment, my only friend, “Open the door to the place I rest my head.” I thought to myself, if you believe your prayer to be possible, you, yourself, could make it a reality, true to what you desire.

 

So what did I do? I walked down the street, hopped the fence into my backyard, opened up my side door, and walked into the home in which my inspiration began. My prayer came true. God is real, and I was his son.

 

My parents were frantic. They screamed, “He’s here!”

“Send them away Walter!”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll take care of it.”

 

I stepped out the front door with no shoes on my feet, looked up at the clear blue sky above, put my hands in the air, having never felt so grateful and vulnerable to be a part of this life that I am so lucky to experience, and thanked Jesus over and over and over again, until, I, was interrupted. A voice, that for once was not my own, thanked me and said, “You can put your hands down now.”

 

One officer approached me, even taking the time to kneel and tie my shoelaces together. I was not surprised by this act. I was Jesus reborn and had earned such respect.

 

The second officer put handcuffs on me. In this moment, I now knew I was a threat, for my potential was far too God-like. I was going to die. I was going to be executed.

 

I lay in the back of the cop car, staring at the blue blanket sky overhead that surrounded the clouds. My thoughts raced, and I had no pen, nor any paper to slow any of them down. I did not understand the situation and my mind made no sense because of it. Fear and confidence battled like a war in my brain. They were taking me somewhere. They were going to protect me. Or, they were leaving me somewhere. They were going to execute me.

 

But the car stopped, and the building I found myself looking at struck nothing but fear and despair even a confident mind could not steer away from. I was back at the hospital. I was going to die. They were going to kill me, for I had the key to unlocking heaven on earth, a playground, that I was certain, we all could share. This truth, this ultimate truth, must be too good for humanity to comprehend and even attempt to begin to accept.

 

I was escorted in handcuffs, accompanied by two officers as they walked me through emergency, and took me to the washroom after I requested to take a piss. I spoke in tongues as I peed, and even saw a feather fly out of my penis following the trail of urine into the toilet bowl in which it traveled. In that moment I could not speak. I knelt down to the toilet in which the white feather fell, seeing it disappear as soon as it touched the water. It was there, I know it was, but I looked and looked and did not see anything but a toilet with clear water resting inside. I was a fallen angel, finally escorted to, and placed, on my final bed. My wings would be forever shackled. They were going to kill me. I had the key, and man did not want the door unlocked. Such a right and good truth is just so hard for humanity to accept and allow. I had to be silenced. In that moment I began to accept my fate.

 

As I lay on the bed I spoke in tongues. My audience wore uniforms and their expression seemed sad and hopeless. I was tied down with straps so tight I could barely move. As the walls closed in on me a man in uniform asked me to take a pill, assuring me it would help, and instructing me to let it dissolve under my tongue. I did, and as the pill dissolved my mouth filled with a sweet flavour. I quickly spat it back at the person who gave me the pill. It was a chemical candy that I knew was nothing more than poison itself.

 

I began to scream. My body jolted the bed back and forth. I tried so hard to break out of my restraints. I tried so hard to find the heaven I could only find if I was free to do so.

 

There was a hole in the wall. I looked at it. I saw an opening to the next chapter, a gateway to another existence. I said, “O”, over and over, louder and louder. I wanted my audience to open their minds with me. I wanted them to share in what I saw.

 

I was injected.

 

I closed my eyes looking at the hole for the very last time.

 

I woke up.

 

I was in a psychiatric ward.
 

 

 

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