Paradise

She opened her eyes and she was in paradise. The sun warmed her and she was full. More importantly, she was loved. Absolutely perfect love engulfed her entire being. She didn’t even know it, she just felt it. It was part of who she was. Love. Perfect Paradise and she didn’t even know that she was in it.

Maybe, that’s a perspective of paradise. You don’t even realize that you’re in a perfect world. To know a perfect world, you would have to know imperfection in comparison. She only knew perfect Paradise. She experienced it every day but never once thought, “This is Paradise.” She lived in it. She experienced it but was not aware of it. Absolute joy was compounded by sheer delight at times.

She didn’t even know rejection. She never felt guilt and didn’t even have the slightest concept or understanding of sin. Sin didn’t exist in her world. She never felt condemnation. There was only the love of her god and her god loved her with all of his heart. That she knew. She waited for his presence. His presence was supreme.

To say that she worshipped him may not quite be the right term, although very close. If pure love is worship, then maybe she did. Yes, maybe she did worship him. He was everything to her.

He provided her with affection and love like no other creature on earth. Nothing or no one came even close. His all knowing eyes greeted her eyes with a love as deep as her own for him. They could spend the entire day together and never be bored with one another. Late at night she curled up in his arms and felt his warmth. Every time she saw him, she was happy. The nearest to sorrow that she ever experienced was when he was gone was. But she knew he would always return with his love.

The warm sun felt good. Somehow her heart felt him. He was drawing near. Her heart began to race to race and her body jumped up in anticipation. Her god was drawing near. She could feel him.

Quiet. Listen. He is arriving. The joy of Paradise, a perfect world unfolding. She ran to the door and pushed it open and ran to him, her own paradise of love.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Timmy,” said the bus driver as she pulled the yellow door shut.

“You bet!” said Timmy as his eyes soared to Misty, his beautiful collie, running with all of her heart towards him. She couldn't possibly run any faster.

“Misty! Come on girl!” he yelled out with joy.

Misty trampled eight year old Timmy to the ground and filled him licks and kisses. Her tailed wagged like there was no tomorrow. Paradise.

An eight year old boy and his dog, laughing and hugging each other. If Misty could know and talk, surely she would say, “This is Paradise.”

“We’ve had a lifetime of love. Only paradise can grant us more time. Are you ready to enter paradise?” he asked, stretching his hand out to me.

I took his weathered hand in my own. “With you by my side, I’m ready for anything.”

“Then let’s go. Remember, no matter what happens, I will always love you.” With those words, together we stepped into the pool.

We were instantly absorbed into the smooth, heavy liquid. It flowed around my naked body, welcoming me and beckoning me deeper. My body felt weightless, wrapped in a warm cocoon. I felt a moment of panic when I realized that I could no longer feel his hand in mine. Then I remembered his last words, and was filled with a sense of peace. This would work. It had to.

I floated deeper into the substance, enjoying its silky feel against my skin. The aches and pains of the years drifted away on its soft ripples. Every pore of my body gloried in it. My senses heightened. My head filled with its sweet, rich aroma, triggering memories that had lain buried for years. The dullness of years was driven from my mind and I regained the clarity of my youth.

I became aware of a tingling in my body. The sweet substance began to surge around me, wrapping me tighter in its embrace. Terror swept through me as I was suddenly pulled beneath the surface.

I began to struggle. This couldn’t be happening. I was so close – it couldn’t end like this. Then I heard his voice, whispering inside my head.

“No matter what happens, I will always love you.” No matter what happened. I willed my body to relax, to stop fighting against itself. Allowing my mind to overrule my traitorous body, I focused on what I was experiencing.

Under the surface, I was insulated from the world. Deprived of sight, smell, sound, I was like a babe in the womb. And like a babe, my body was changing.

My legs, weak from years of work, grew strong. Knees that ached to walk now yearned to run. I felt strength return to my thighs, the strength of a young woman.

My hands, twisted from arthritis, straightened. Joints devastated by disease renewed themselves, drawing strength and energy from the nourishing liquid.

My failing heart now beat strong and even, the sound of it filling my ears with joy. And my sagging skin tightened, returning to me the glory of my youth.

Suddenly, I was released from its embrace and drifted slowly to the surface. Opening my eyes, I saw a young, vibrant hand stretched out to me. I took his hand, and together we stepped out on the far side of the pool.

Rivers of the rich, sweet chocolate flowed from our bodies. After the warmth of the molten liquid, the room felt cold and empty. I looked into loving eyes, and saw a reflection of my own amazement.

The chocolate had cheated death and returned to us our youth. A lifetime of love is possible anywhere. But only in paradise can love last forever.

Very young children are strangers to the night. It is usually experienced as a giant, dark hand that clasps the windows, shutting out all that is familiar. Thus the night is imbued with a vague sense of danger, which, unfortunately, finds its expression in that ultimate adult projection: the Bogey Man.

Yet for me, it is a special time.
When humankind sleeps, something magical takes place. There comes a softness, for the night is kind. In its shadows, a shrunken tree becomes a sculpture, a derelict house; a monument in black stone.

Night’s caress is a benediction; with it comes a wonderful sensation that, under the inverted bowl of the sky, the universe wheels in a giant, mysterious arc with you at its centre.

So it was, that when I stepped into the sultry night last week with my son in my arms, my thought had been to share this with him. To my surprise, it was the child who became the teacher.

“Dadda!” he cried, pointing at a passing tram. It was transformed. Now it was a roaring monster that broke the silence with its rattle and clanging glare, its passengers caught like frozen mannequins in its internal lights.

As the tram passed and silence and darkness fell again, my son’s eyes widened in delight. He gazed at a world he had never seen before; a world of soft shadows and silhouettes; whilst above, the velvet sky curved, punctuated by the bright blossoms of a myriad stars.

I spoke in a whisper, for there is a reverence about the night that renders loud speech crude: “The night,” I whispered to him, his tiny, warm body close to mine.

He giggled, eyes dancing, and I resorted to an old trick he loved: with my left hand on his chest and my right hand beneath him, I raised him slowly into the air as dancer holds a ballerina aloft. In response, he straightened his back, craned his head and pointed a tiny finger to the silent blessing of the stars. He whispered with such child-like awe that the words seemed almost religious: “The nigh’, Dadda,” he repeated, “The nigh’."

I truly thought my heart would break: his tiny body poised aloft, finger pointing like a Michelangelo cherub, his face glowing with wonder, the stars in his eyes. In that perfect moment, I felt that the night was ours alone; and should I let go, he would float gently upwards to his rightful place in the heavens.

Life is a mystery upon which we often ponder, but in that moment, holding my son aloft, all such questions were swept aside by the sheer eloquence of this tiny child, alive with the wonder of existence. For, through his eyes, I caught a glimpse of Paradise.

Later, walking back up our garden path, he clung to me happily, head on my breast. Just before we entered the house, sensing his time was over, he raised his head and gazed into my eyes, his own lustrous with the light that was our heritage, is our heritage. “The nigh’, Dadda, the nigh’,” he repeated, reverential, joyous.

Soon I shall take him out into the rain, another time I shall take him to see the ocean. Of course, because adult eyes have grown old and cannot see, he shall show them all to me afresh, for in truth I didn't show him the stars, it was he who showed them to me.

Just two years old, my son has taught me that Paradise is not in some exotic location or Palace of Opulence. All we have to do is cease our eternal hurrying and stop and look; for it is here, now.

I sigh contentedly. This is the life.

Lying in the shade of the big elm tree at the edge of the clearing, watching the forest.

A warm, pleasant breeze rustles through the leaves, making the sunlight filtering down to the forest floor skip and dance. The air is heavy with the fragrance of wild flowers. Everywhere around me I can hear the busy humming of bees.

Stretching languidly, I fold my hands behind my head and fight a loosing battle against drowsiness.

Everything seems so peaceful.

If I concentrate, I can just make out the murmuring of the little creek from across the glade. I close my eyes and slowly drift into the serene transition state of semi-slumber.

It doesn’t get any better than this.

Her footsteps wake me. She is approaching slowly; the sound of her bare feet swishing through the grass is barely audible.

She stops, and I smile up to her.

I feel the closeness of her body as she lies down by my side. The gentle warmth of her skin as she cuddles up to me. For a moment we lie there together in silence. Then she props herself up on one elbow, bending down her head to cover my face with a mass of curly hair. Slowly she runs a finger over my naked chest.

“I’m bored, Adam. Let’s go do something fun.”

I know a lake, it’s in my mind.
I go and think there all the time.

The gentle breeze, the glowing sun.
I wander there when my day is done.

I relax, by a bubbling brook.
A shaded tree my overlook.

I quietly sit and contemplate,
the life I live, the choices I make.

Each dying day a reminder to me,
that I live in a country, where I was born free.

Each time that I travel, I choose a new place.
To think and relax and enjoy the slow pace.

My days are hectic, they never stop.
Three young children in my family crop.

But my nights are mine, I choose my space.
I travel alone to my special place.

I’m not tied down by money or fate.
My mind alone is my Paradise gate.

It’s difficult to contemplate paradise when it has been raining for a week straight. The obvious option would be a place sunny and warm, but then again, where I live it is sunny and warm 365 days a year. Or in this exceptional case, 358 days.

Sunny and warm would be a good beginning, so let’s start there.

A sunny and warm paradise itself sounds pretty good, but we’re talking about the real deal here. Paradise. I should want more out of my ultimate ideal. There must be more quantifiers. Sunny and warm just isn’t going to cut it.

Money would be nice. Lots of money. I think someone once said money can buy happiness.

Or was it that money cannot buy happiness? Let’s move on.

Okay. Warm and sunny. Money, and lots of it. What else?

I nearly forgot. Paradise to me would be living in total harmony with my girlfriend. We would never fight and we would just be happy together always. There would be so much love between the two of us that passers-by on the street would shield their eyes from our collective glow.

Oh yeah. I broke up with my girlfriend a while ago. We’re both better off for it. We still talk and she seems really happy now. I am too.

Okay. Scratch all that, except for the warm and sunny part. That still sounds pretty good. And the money. Yeah, paradise should have automated bank machines that spit money at me whenever I walk past.

Come to think of it, I don’t know what I would do with a ceaseless supply of money. I’d probably become a freak of some kind, building a wallaby zoo on my ranch compound or something.

You know, I get a sense of satisfaction from being able to spend within my earnings as it is now. I don’t feel any need for material things. I know that sounds disingenuous, but I don’t want a bigger car or a bigger house. All that big stuff would just block out that warm and shiny sun.

Forget the money.

So we’re back at sunny and warm.

Perhaps paradise is easier to define. I mean, I’d like it if the battery in my car wasn’t dead. I work two jobs, so I haven’t had time in the past few days to get a new one. The car just sits in my driveway, darkened taillights mocking me as I walk through the downpour in the morning to the bus stop. If only I could get some time off, I’d be able to buy that darned battery.

Maybe I can do that in paradise.

That’s just silly. My paradise is not going to be defined by my having the time to hoof it to AutoZone for a car battery. That would be just so…temporary.

No. Paradise should be more liberating than that. Paradise should be better than the comfiest sweater you ever owned and tastier that the best grilled cheese sandwich you ever had. Paradise is populated by your best friends and memories, and the potential to make even better friends and memories.

Maybe I’m just too foolish to realize that I am already in my own personal paradise. Maybe if the rain would stop, I’d know for sure.

Yet I think somehow I‘ll still be okay if the rain falls for the rest of my time here as long as otherwise things stay just as they are.

I can always buy an umbrella.

“Wake up, Chris.”

It is difficult to fully describe that voice. Strong, reassuring, gentle: so many feelings tied up in just the sound, let alone the words. I immediately feel at ease.

“Where am I? What happened?” Bits of memory came back to me and with them a feeling of panic started to rise deep within my soul. “My family! We were in the car. What’s going on?”

“Chris, it’s okay. They’re all safe. You’re safe. Nothing can harm them or you here.”

A sense of calm assurance settles over me. I look around, and am struck by the unimposing beauty. There are no awe-inspiring views or astonishing structures; it is wonderful in its simplicity. There are no hard edges or corners, no garish colors or gaudy patterns. Perhaps most wonderful of all is the fact that there are no shadows. Nowhere is there even a hint of darkness. There is a glow about the place; yet, the light is not glaring or harsh in any way. It is a comfortable warm glow.

“Where are they? When can I see them? What is this place?”

The immediate response is a hint of mirthful laughter, like that of a father amused with his impatient child. “All in good time, Chris. We have plenty of time.” I can hear the smile behind the voice.

“How long was I out? I can’t remember what happened. Is this the hospital?” I feel the small knot of dread forming again, like a lump of ice, but once more, it is melted.

“Please Chris, try to relax. I promise you that everything will be all right.” I can’t explain why, but I believe this unconditionally. “I will explain everything to you. Let’s start simply. This isn’t the hospital. I’m afraid you didn’t survive the accident.”

“So this is heaven?” I ask, incredulously. “Where are Peter and the pearly gates? Shouldn’t I have wings or a halo or something?”

“Peter is here. He’s going through the same thing you are. I suppose you could call this heaven, but I prefer to call it home. You’ve been away, but now you’re back.” Again, I can sense the benevolent smile.

“Are you God?”

“I am. I created you and all those like you. I created the universe for you to live in and learn. And now I have brought you home.”

“How…how long have I been gone? Are you going to judge me now? I’ve done some bad things.” Once more, the fear starts to grow in me and yet again, it is washed away.

“Chris, my child, you did nothing to cause permanent harm. You need not worry about judgment. This may be a shock, but you have been away from me for many billions of years.”

“Did you say billions? I could have sworn it’s been only a few hours.”

Again comes the amused chuckle. “I am glad the wait was not hard for you. I had to let the creation fully develop. It had to end naturally.”

“So what now? I’ve always worried that heaven would be boring, sitting around for eternity with nothing to do.”

“You have much to learn. You can witness the lives of all the people on all the planets across the entire span of the whole universe. You can learn how and why it all works. But even that is only the beginning.”

I am awed trying to fathom the immense amounts of time involved, the knowledge I might gain. “The beginning?”

“Yes. When you are ready, when you have learned enough, we will create.”

"Tell me," the boy whispered.

"Again?" The man drew down the covers and lifted the boy's gown. His thin chest was spotted with bruises and burns, some old, some recent. It was difficult to find a place to lay two of his fingers for tapping. The boy looked on with grave eyes and quiet lips, and didn't wince. The man moved his fingers over the boy's chest. He tapped, and tapped again. It was not good, the pneumonia. Malnutrition and abuse had seriously weakened the boy's immune system. He wouldn't make it. He'd be gone by dawn.

"Please tell me," the boy whispered again.

"About paradise?"

The man pulled over a chair to sit on, and reached into a pocket for his stethescope, to listen to the boy's heart and lungs. When he finished, he left one hand resting on the boy's sternum, where the biggest bruise had turned yellow and purple. It was as if the man strove by will-power alone to infuse life and health back into the small, battered body.

"Paradise is where you shall go. All souls, when they sever the connection with the body, must rise or fall. Yours shall surely rise."

"What if I fall?"

"Only weak souls fall," the man replied. "Your soul is very strong. You will rise, along with all the other strong souls who die that day."

"Soon," said the boy.

"Yes, soon," said the man.

"Rise where? Oh, tell me."

"To the top of the sky, where it turns from blue to black," the man continued, moving his hand to feel the boy's pulse, "where the stars shine night and day, millions and millions of them, bright as sparklers, and all the strong and mighty souls gather for their journey."

The boy coughed and choked up phlegm, then lay back panting, his forehead slick with sweat. The man helped him take a sip of water, and patted the boy's face dry with a cloth.

"Go on," the boy said, "their journey where?"

The man sat back in his chair. "To the sun," he said. "It's a very, very long way, but together, and only together, you can all make it."

"We'll burn up."

"No. Only bodies can burn. Souls can't. They're made of the same stuff. They love it, the warmth, and the light so thick you can feel it. When you arrive, the celestial beings ..."

"... the angels ... ?"

"...the angels will sing out a welcome, and the birds of paradise will careen through incandescent coruscations of light." The boy laughed at this, and so did the man. It was their favourite part. "Rainbows will dance for joy, and they will zoom up to say hello."

The boy shifted in the bed, and reached out a pale hand to the man, who took it in both of his warm, brown ones.

"What are the rainbows?"

"They are the souls of all the little ones, boys and girls, come to make friends with you."

"Will I be a rainbow, too?"

"Absolutely. You are one already." The man squeezed the boy's hand, harder than he intended.

"I'll go soon?"

"Yes. Very soon."

The man leaned over and kissed the boy on the forehead. Then he got up to leave. There were other patients to see. But none of them would die, at least not that night. So he would come back, as soon as he could.

The man had a strong heart. He thought of it as "well-tempered", like steel. But on his way out of the ward it broke, and he ran into the men's room, so the boy wouldn't hear him weeping.

The man was a doctor. He thought paradise was only a fantasy, a tale from his own childhood, long forgotten. He thought he had told the boy a lie. These were the anvil and the hammer, that had broken his heart. This was the shame that had made him weep.

Blink.

“I do believe, Peter!” the girl says to me. I glance down. Green leotards? Pointy shoes? Oooohhhh, right!

“Then you can fly!” And it hits me, “I can fly!!”

“But what about Hook?”

“Forget Hook, Wendy! I want to FLY!” And with no more effort than simply believing I can, I lift into the air. I’m doing it! I’m flying!

Swooping back, I crow “Hey, Tink, race you to the Moon!”

Blink.

“Mannie? Your social arm.”

Possibly it’s the beautiful redhead, or maybe the apparently human arm she’s holding out, but the best reply I can manage is, “Uhhh, thanks.”

Reaching for the proffered limb, I find I don’t have a left arm. Mistaking my motion as a request, she says “Sure Mannie” and slides the arm up my sleeve. As the cybernetic coupler engages, I recognize her. “Thanks, Wyoh.”

“Welcome, tovarishch. Mike says…”

Suddenly, the walls seem to slam in. “Mike! You talked to Mike? When? How?”

“This morning. You know Mike is always listening.”

Hardly daring to believe, I whisper “Mike?”

And I hear that voice. The voice I thought would never speak again. “Yes, Mannie?” Even in that short sentence, I can hear the innocence of a child and the wisdom of the ages.

“Mike, you’re ali…” Choking on my words, I realize the battle hasn’t happened. Our freedom has yet to be bought with Mike’s sentience.

“Mike, something’s wrong! He’s… crying? Mannie?” Wyoh says as she pulls me close in concern.

“I’m alright, Wye, it’s just… it’s really great to hear you Mike.”

Analyzing the gravity in my voice, Mycroft H.O.L.M.E.S., the Mark IV computer responds, “It is good to hear you too, Manuel my first friend.”

Swirling emotions sweep me away and I struggle for calmness.

Blink.

Morning sunlight illuminates the sloped tent walls. Passing through the opening, my crown snags the tent flaps. Pushing it back up from my eyes, I see, well, monsters sleeping around the tent. Sneaking past, I can’t keep from laughing at one bull-horned fellow wearing an old sweater. My laugh wakes them and with a hideous chorus of chirps and growls they call out “King Max, where are you going?”

Too late, I remember the trick of staring into their eyes without blinking and decide to make a run for it. Sprinting onto the path, I hope I reach the beach before they catch me.

Arriving as I cast off, they roar their terrible roars and gnash their terrible teeth. Waving goodbye, I make myself comfortable, knowing the journey will last a year. Time enough to contemplate who the most beautiful is, if not Wyoh.

Blink.

“Great Belin!”

Turning, I see Fflewddur and realize I'm holding his wondrous harp. And beside him is Eilonwy. In awe, I exclaim, “You’re the most beautiful!”

“Oh Taran, stop teasing me!” she growls, punching me mightily on the arm.

“Ahem.” grunts Fflewddur, his eyes rolling meaningfully at the harp in my hands. Not a single string had broken, not even tensed. Eilonwy hastily turns away, her face flushing and smiling simultaneously. While the others look for the Cauldron, I rub my arm tenderly. Would Orddu trade for some armor?

Blink.

Losing control, the suit amplifies my clumsy motion and slams me into the ground.

“Rico, that mech suit cost 10,000 times more than I can sell your body parts for. Not to mention those nuke missiles are hot. On the bounce, recruit!”

“Uhh. Yes Sergeant!” Hot missiles? Recruit? It must be near the end of boot camp. That means we’ll be shipping out soon.

I wonder what space will be like?

Blink.

My Friends are "Peter Pan", "Moon is a Harsh Mistress", "Where the Wild Things Are", "The Black Cauldron", and "Starship Troopers" by, respectively, Barrie, Heinlein, Sendak, Alexander, and Heinlein again.

“So, tell me, what is your personal paradise?” asks the psychiatrist.

“Um… well, being a religious man, I’d have to say heaven,” replies the patient

“No, no. Make it a personal thing. What surroundings would make you most happy, comfortable, at home… pleased?”

“Well… I guess…”

The psychiatrist interrupts, but is speaking under his breath, “Say heaven again and I’ll throttle you.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing… think something other than heaven, if you would.”

“Well. I guess it’d have to be a nice place. Like uh… Hawaii or something. I’d be on my own personal beach, away from all the crowds and stuff, but surrounded by my family and friends. Maybe coworkers too… well, some of them. Just the ones I like. And there’d be a pretty house behind us where we could cool off and stuff, and it’d be surrounded by palm trees with coconuts growing on them. There’d be the ocean and stuff, clear as could be… and everyone would be happy and enjoying themselves. Oh, and there’d also be a bonfire that we could sit around. And it would be, like uh… dusk. Light enough to see and swim and stuff, but dark enough to be able to sit around the fire and sing and laugh and… do bonfire things. I guess it would kinda be like heaven, only… well, like a personal heaven.”

The psychiatrist quivers for a second, a sneer forming on his face. “Do you have any idea how cliché that is?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your paradise… that’s been so done before. Why don’t you come up with something good, or are you just dull?"

“Say, I paid you to…”

“I don’t care what you paid me for,” interrupts the psychiatrist, yelling with increasing fury. “I’m sick and tired of hearing the same dream, every bloody time that a patient comes in here. It’s always, ‘oh, I’m so boring, I wanna live on an island,’ or, ‘oh, all that matters to me is my family, so I’d be around them.’ It’s enough to make a man sick, listening to the same drivel everyday.”

“But…”

“Don’t interrupt me! Furthermore, I always get morons like you coming in here. Just average Joes complaining about some stupid marital problems that are caused because they’re too ignorant to pay attention to their wives, or some whining loser that cant work up the guts to just quit his dead end job that’s making him unhappy… not crazy, just unhappy. Why can’t I get some interesting patients? I want a grade A schizophrenic! One with thirty different competing personalities that I can work on for ages! One with new personalities forming and bouts of insanity every day. Or maybe just some clinically insane freak that claims he is the messiah, and believes it to his core! That is what I want! I want exciting psychology! Psychology on the brink of major discoveries about the mind! Enough of this drivel! Out, insolent fool! Out!”

Waving his arms and brandishing the clipboard like a bludgeon, the psychiatrist runs the patient out of the room, still yelling like a madman. The patient runs out, shielding his head from the blows the psychiatrist’s clipboard. The door closes on his office with a slam.

The psychiatrist drops the clipboard and sits down in the patient’s chair. A tear forms in his eye. “I know I’ll get fired for that… but that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced.”

I open the front door and my two-year-old daughter comes running towards me, full speed, shouting “Daddy, Daddy!” I can see the big smile on her face as I scoop her up into my arms. As she wraps her arms around my neck and gives me a big squeeze, she contentedly says “Daddy’s home.” There’s no place I’d rather be.

As soon as I put her down, my six-year-old is there with a hug and a kiss, already telling me all about her day at kindergarten. She hands me a beautiful drawing and sweetly says, “I drew it just for you Daddy, because I know you like tigers.” I feel honored.

In the next room my fourteen-year-old son looks my way and smiles a greeting as he demonstrates “sixteen-hands,” the latest kung-fu form he has learned. He is so fluid and graceful and I wonder at how talented he is.

I look into the bedroom of my eleven-year-old daughter and find her, typically, reading. She looks up, smiles, and then leaps to show me her latest scholastic triumph, a perfect score on last week’s math test. I am so proud.

And there, in the midst of all this, is my wife, my best friend and love of my life, sharing my pride and joy. Of course, she also has to share the chaos and bedlam that occasionally (okay, frequently) overtake our happy family.

Things are not always sweetness and light in our home. The decibel level often rises above the pain threshold and it sometimes seems like they aren’t four children, but the four horsemen. Yet, I wouldn’t trade any part of this life for fame, fortune, power, or glory.

You can have your robes and harps. The 24-hour all-chocolate, zero-calorie buffet is not for me. I am not yearning for the halls of Valhalla. I don’t need to dream of paradise. I don’t have to die to go there. I enter paradise every time I go home.

“Ah, glorious soul! Welcome to my domain! Where the wretched spirits lie in disorder, thou art welcome to step. Take no heed of the emissaries of light, thrust so deep within the twisted bowels of this realm. For their frail cries for wisdom and judgement are not given any obediance. Your way they will not turn. Your path long has been chosen. A paramount of evil in your life you were, decaying corpses left behind by wandering souls. All, your creation, your legacy.

This will be your new home, where light out of nothing shines. The screams of the unavenged have not the might to permeate the thick fumes of brimstone that will now serve as your air. Relinquish your corporeal form of flesh and liquid with ease, for it is here that YOU, eternal spirit shall be forever.

Let Malice take it’s path! Shine spirit for the last time, and may your light be dimmed for all eternities to come. Now, transcend, and be forgotten! Rejoice in thy twisting and clawing, for it is the only joy you shall ever again feel. LET CHAOS RULE!”

[…]

So the Dark One spoke to me. And it was as if my whole being was torn, my spirit crushed under the pressure of battling titans. Reality began to fade. Eternal damnation stood before me and as I gasped for what I knew was going to be my last breath of air I heard the sound of a wailing harp in the distance. My consciousness struggled for existance and as the world blurred around my bleeding body one point caught focus. The closing mass of light was joined by the surreal notes of the harp and Alas! there lay above my dimming spirit the Angel Of Salvation. He stood before me and reached his hand out, by the sight of which my eyes were burning, for such purity they had never seen. Yet judgement had come and the tear the angel shed for me was accompanied by deathly chorus and from his hands he placed on my ravaged chest one single artifact covered in the softest leather. As I grabbed onto it, the gateway to the realm of death opened, and so my plunge in the abbys began…

Through the twisted catacombs my eternal being fell continuosly, prey to all sins that had unknowingly accompanied me in life. Pieces of reason and of mind torn from me like pieces of wood from a carving. “O Hellish Seven! Release me from this torment! For I know now that Sin in all its glory and perversity my bride was!” But no remorse is given, as none is accepted by the seven offspring of Sin.

Satisfied did the Dark One laugh at my torment. Arms wide open to embrace me, his hellish form displayed. Desperation infinite, shattered spirit, broken image of hate and anguish my now immortal self was. Down I fell to meet the sinister embrace…

As I rushed toward eternity, the unkown artifact I had so tightly grasped jumped on my face with evil desire. Unexpressable my horror was, when the so far concealed creature of darkness slashed it’s claws in my neck, pressing it’s tongue against my cheek and…

[…]

“Honey!”
“Huh! What happened?”
“You were dreaming dear. You were screaming, you know.”
“Oh…”
“Whiskey! Get off him! Stop licking his face you stupid cat!”
“Man it's good to be alive! I love you honey! We’re broke again, there’s a little fog outside, but hey it’s ok. I’ve got an exam I’ll probably fail tomorrow… Now THIS is what I call PARADISE…”

"Will you marry me, my love?"
The girl looked around. There was nothing but the omnipresent sunlight and horizons of white clouds.
"Am I dead, then?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Do you like my kingdom?"
"Very emotional."
"And you don't like that."
"No."
"Well, shall I show you something else, then?" he suggested, but received no answer except a slight difference of the girl's expression.
The clouds disappeared. The two of them were standing on a beach and waves were showering their feet with cool foam. It wasn't a tropical sea, it was dark blue and wild. They watched the waves and then he said:
"What about this one?"
"It's beautiful," said the girl. "However, I miss something about it."
"The smell?"
"Exactly."
"You never liked it," he reminded her.
"But I need it to get the full sensation of this."
The air mixed with tiny particles of salt. They stood in the sand without a word, just the sound of rushing water underneath their feet...
"God?"
"Yes, Tina?"
"Why should you want to marry an atheist?"
"I never cared to be worshipped. Besides, I'm not as important to the religious folk as their holy books," he said quietly. "I'm sure that if I can make you forgive and understand me, you will love me more than them."
"Forgive you for what?"
"You know what you hate me for, Tina."
"Take me somewhere else..."
The next moment she was standing on an old asphalt road on the top of a hill. A huge valley stretched before her, with a mountain range on the other side, but she never saw it, as night hid most of the landscape in the blackness of its robe and only the sodium constellations of towns and villages were visible. Celestine's eyes shone with fascination.
"Moravian Gate..." she whispered. "I could watch this for hours."
She turned to him. "Thanks..."
He smiled and removed a few locks of his fine long hair from his face. Then he reached out for her and took her in his arms.

Tina looked back at the Moravian Gate.
"Are they real?" she nodded towards the signs of settlement.
"Yes, they are. I just thought you preferred privacy."
"Privacy - not loneliness. I wonder what other people do once they're dead. Is this place what they call Paradise?"
"It's probably what they call Heaven. But since most of them are happy and Paradise sounds like a promise of happiness, I suppose the term could also apply to this place."
He switched on the sky and a new day began. They walked down the hill hand in hand until they came in a small village. Celestine couldn't believe how friendly and cheerful the people were. They talked to God as if they were best friends and God's smile never faded.
"This IS Paradise," said Tina.
"Is it?"
"You said Paradise is a promise of happiness. Seeing happy people makes me happy... The world I left was full of stress and demands and people were only happy if they could slow down. Mostly they couldn't, of course. But every one of these demands lacks significance after death, so the people are perfectly relaxed here and you feel good just watching them," she explained.
Then she looked up into his eyes and they both burst out laughing.

I have yet to encounter a physical form of my own personal paradise. Of course there are certain places I would much rather be than others, but none would fulfill my mental description of ecstasy. The only thing currently able to fill that giant expectation is my imagination, which can be better than any room or place that exists in our own, sometimes bleak, reality.

Childish as it may seem, my paradise involves dinosaurs. Dinosaurs, waterfalls and adventure garnish my dreamland. The day begins with the vibrant site of herds of brachiosaurus, creating napalm clouds of earth with each step across a massive dusty grassed plain; only after craning their necks to pluck leaves form the dense surroundings. This observation is seen from the frame of an enclosed rock face that is constantly smothered by the falling water of a stream overhead; cool like a summer evening and resoundingly superb for a good morning jolt.

Along the coiled path to this destination are half a dozen bowls of the same liquid, warmed by the unshaded sun to form a large staircase of endless comfortable swimming opportunities. Upon finishing the rejuvenating splash or two and ready to start my day of relaxation, I return down the winding trail and travel at my own pace to a shore at the edge of the plains where my ship waits. Naturally, this ship has a transparent bottom to observe the magnificent creatures that inherit the land beneath the surface, and it does not take long after setting sail to spot varieties of them slithering, leaping, and darting in the distance. I do not feel in danger of them as I drift away in my own dream within a dream, staring at the sky and the equally glorious beings that rule the air kingdom.

Perhaps upon opening my eyes I will be near my village homeland, perhaps not. Perhaps I will indulge and fish for coelacanths, or perhaps I will simply admire them in their natural state. The agenda for the day might include being a bit of an adventurer, landing on an island to go spy on velociraptors or other such native wildlife. Perhaps all the bliss will end in a swift death by one of the previously trusted monsters on the horizon. None of these outcomes or choices bother me in the slightest, and floating without a purpose for eternity while feasting on succulent pomegranates seems like the best idea of them all.

A town strung in the sky forms my abode, a colossal tree house stronghold that shelters many delightful denizens. In the center of town, a community fire is the gathering place. Music is played and stories are told, both similarly pleasant and interesting. From the perch of slumber at the summit, it is possible to see every inch of my day’s travel, albeit faded in the expanse; delimited by puffs of guard clouds that light up like beacons by the glow of the moon and the stars. Settling into a nest of tyrannosaurus feathers, the antics of nocturnal playgrounds in the humid jungle below remind me I was at those very places hours ago, and the songs of the creatures sooth me into dreams of the next day and how it will top the previous.

A good man was walking down the street, admiring the gift of color that presented itself each day. The dawn had come, and it had not arrived packaged, bottled, or prepared. Everyday it was painted in shades of orange, hues of red, and highlighted with golden threads. Snowy peaks and oceans attempted to imitate the sky with the colors they took on during the rising of the sun each day. They were, of course, just reflections of a more glorious power the man thought. Day by day, clouds were sculpted from the softest cotton and placed in the sky, bearing uncanny resemblance to the things we dream about. He smiled as he looked at this beautiful sunrise.

Interrupting the man's daydream, a car slammed into him as he stepped into the northbound lane of the crosswalk. His crumpled body landed motionless near the curb.

He felt pain flash hot throughout his arms and legs; then suddenly an extreme cold froze his limbs. The icy feeling transitioned to numbness. Creeping slowly, hand over hand, darkness inched toward his body, while at the same time his mind and soul exploded with fantastic, impossible lights. His mortal remains took in the last smell of concrete and tar, before finally, the man's body let go of the breath it clutched at so futilely.

His vision became unbounded by mortal limits and he began racing down channels and through voids. Moving at speeds unfathomable by human cerebration, the man was carried toward something extraordinarily bright. The twists and turns were surrounded by color more vivid than any dawn. Cerulean rays assaulted his being while motes of viridian luminescence played about his core. A sudden twist to the left; roses and violets pricked him and kissed him as he passed them by. The taste of apples and the smell of cider flowed through him, filling him. Memories of his son playing with a yellow truck swelled like a crescendo and receded like a low tide. His daughter leisurely colored a picture with a crayon of deepest crimson. Recollections of a familiar hand, his wife's hand, reached out beyond the frame of a door to stroke his cheek, and welcome him home. Sounds collided with his rushing essence, exploding in musical orchestratration and tinkling as if shards of crystal had fallen on a marble walkway. Then calm and a blinding white light greeted the man.

A voice rang out from somewhere, “You have been a good man throughout your life.”

“Where am I and who are you?” The man cried out. “What is happening to me? Am I dead?” The sound of his voice echoed and reverberated. The echo stopped.

Silence. Dreadful silence. A door appeared.

The voice rang out again. “I am El Elyon, Jehova, and Yeshua. I am Odin, Brahma, and Allah. I am you.”

My conciousness suddenly expanded and my thoughts took on a new form of awareness. I looked down below the door and noticed that there lay no inscription in chiseled form or markings of any kind bearing "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate." Rather, there was a woven mat of silk that whispered, “Welcome home.”

I stepped through the door, and saw my son playing with a yellow truck. My daughter sat in a pink dress coloring a picture using a crayon of deep red. My wife greeted me at the door and stroked my cheek. She smiled and looked at me as if for the first time.

“Welcome home,” she said. “Children, your father has returned. Hurry up and come hug the man before he feels lonely!”

As the children got up and came running toward me, I thought to myself, “I guess I am just a man. Just a man living in paradise like any other God.”

“Where are all the stars?”

“They’re still there. Everything is still there.”

“So why can’t I see?”

“You are in a world of your own choosing. Your choices are reflected in the reality here.”

“So why can I not see?”

“Because you have refused to see.”

Gregory felt like he was upside down, inside a wave of black. He wished he could feel queasy, but he wasn’t sure he could anymore. He could still feel the butterflies. “I want to see something! The beach! My honeymoon!”

“I am afraid you can not be afforded that luxury.”

“WHAT? You said this was a place of my choosing! I choose something else now!”

Did the voice sound… petulant? Dismissive? Was there pity in the answer? “I am afraid I have not been clear, Gregory Mitchell. You had chosen this place before you ever got here. You chose it before you ever knew it existed.”

The battering sound of silence surrounded Gregory, assaulting what senses he retained.

He was in a park, looking at himself. He was taller than himself, and angry at himself, and felt the pain of scorn that only he could heap upon himself.

And the Voice told him: “You will reap the harvest you have chosen, until you repent for what you have done. You are your own jail keeper, your own Inquisition.”

He was in a bedroom, lying awake at night, looking at himself across the chasm of the sheets. His heart knotted, his soul emptied.

And: “Repentance is the key. The suffering you have heaped upon the ones you [more pity?] loved, you will heap upon yourself.”

He takes the paper from himself, and feels the shame of failure. He does not read the paper, because he knows what it says, and he does not look at himself, but stares somewhere between the earth and the sky, his new home and the home of his wife and of his children. His stomach feels empty and his legs are butter and he hears himself say “Now, this is hard for me to do (was it?), but you have missed too many payments (did I?) and we cannot allow your debt to remain outstanding (can’t YOU). We have to foreclose. You understand.”

Now his eyes rise like the tide, slowly taking himself into view. He sees his plastic expression of concern, practiced to automatic, the eyes as dead and lifeless as the future he has planned.

And all of this in a moment.

And then black again, a release into oblivion. Gregory Mitchell does not talk. He sobs, except he has no eyes, and has no mouth now. He just feels torment.

“Your life was dominated by cruelty. Your salvation was promised by Him. You will now feel the suffering you have caused Him, by your own will, by your own hand.”

And: “Only after you have known yourself, Gregory Mitchell, will you be prepared for the eternal paradise.”

And the void disappeared, swallowing him again.

I want to be a billionaire so my tackiness can be unbound.

The very first things I'd buy would be a Craftmatic Adjustable Bed and The Clapper, the epitome of billionaire bedroom cool. The night stands by the bed? Those will be coolers because those of us with really bad taste cannot be too far from our Budweiser at any time. Or our SunnyD, we need to think of our health.

My library/office (where I'd write romance novels as a hobby) would be a real museum-type library. I'd spend hundreds of thousands of dollars looking for and buying every single Harlequin Presents and Loveswept ever written. On the walls would be Solie, Paul and Gignilliat originals paintings so that I can tell the other snobs (once you become a billionaire there’s a club of snobs you are forced to join) that I have Solie, Paul and Gignilliat originals, only I won’t tell the snobs that the oils are the originals of romance novel covers. Over the fireplace, in the place of honor, a portrait of Dame Cartlandt in all of her fluffy pink glory will hang. No, not by the neck.

I'd like to have fun in my Art Room. There'd be a Benniton color coalition of gigantic-headed, sad-eyed children paintings on the wall plus display cases full of castles and chess sets. Two tier display cases tastefully scattered in path-blocking disorder; on tier of each case would have a miniature castles and the other tier, chess sets. I'd have a case for sand castles and chest sets, wood castle and chest sets-- crystal, pewter, gold, silver. . .. When visitors scream for relief from the gaudiness I'd usher them into the Artifact Room. In here there'd be nothing but pre-Colombian, pre-Colonial fertility figurines. The unifying theme would be exaggerated genitalia. Big, club-like penises and women with 35 breasts. Asses out to here and scrotums down to there all tastefully lit and displayed with the respect ancient artifacts deserve. I'll have my guest begging for the sad-eyed, big-headed urchins.

And now that I've accidentally reminded myself of Michael Jackson, I don't care that he's a melted-faced pedophile, having an amusement park in you backyard is cool!

The final touch, the creme de la creme, the ultimate in my tacky paradise will be the bathroom. The Jungle Bathroom. The whole room would be one, gigantic steam room. Ferns and potted palms would surround the sunken tub. Vines would fall gracefully from the ceiling. You’d be able to swing on them.

Excuse me, I have to go now. Lotto is calling and my little piece of paradise in Brooklyn is waiting for me to hit it big.

I am standing, in a garden. It is dark and blue light seeps through the large Sakura tree’s branches. I admire the shadows. The woods behind me gleam oddly as star light and the mysterious blue emitting from the sky shines in though the thick boughs. Some bow from the weight of the wet leaves. I notice the ground is also damp with dew. It is early morning and in the east the light of morning can be seen. I walk down the garden path and see the roses and tulips.

Ahead is a pond.. It is a shallow pond… Flat stepping stone lead to a veranda it is stone and seems to be the color of the water and the stone seems to flow as such as the light of the water graces its flat surface. It gives one a spooky feeling as they approach but this is quickly dismissed as soon as one steps upon it. I walk across picking up my yukata as I do so. My bare feet feel the coolness of the stones. The veranda’s floor is made of wood. Candles are lit all the way around and the flames flicker. If one looks into the water, he may see fish, of all kinds, swimming peacefully, bar when something breaks the water’s surface. I walk down the other path leading away; it is longer and goes all the way down the pond. Careful not to step in I make my way across.

At the end a child stands a fox sniffs his hand. The remaking of my favorite story. The boy cannot see nor hear, I know. When the fox growls, it gets no reaction. When it shows its teeth it gets no reaction and helps the pitiful creature before it. Having one that can not see nor hear it terrible reputation and actions it finds comfort and love. I walk past as the story replays it. This is merely a statue and never does move. I can picture clearly in my head, through the still statue’s real form, how it would play out.

I walk on… There is a beautiful platform, large in size. It is a stepping stone leading up. I start my climb. It leads up circling a great tree… it’s only support. I reach the top sometime later and gaze to the east as the sun rises. My hand rests upon the tree’s top and I sit down, legs dangling the edge. The sun is beautiful and red in color, orange and purples also appear. Looking down one can see the flowers and such. They are very far and the colors blend together. It is like a big mosaic. It has no definite shape or meaning, except the beauty and the confusion found in human emotion. I descend the stairs, after minutes of staring, and follow the path further Flowers of all shades and types, particularly Japanese, Line the walk to a house… the door is a simply rice paper one and slides. I go inside and look around.

The walls are wood as are the floors. Pictures cover the walls. Most of them are Oriental in style. I have the Paradise-like life now, No human contact. I had noticed a vegetable garden which I could tend. I walk up stares and see one person, my friend and lifelong love. Her black wavy hair falls down her back gracefully and her eyes of pure waters glisten. We can never be anything more but I wish to share this Paradise with her no matter what… It wouldn't be the same without her...

Your paradise is where you’re free to do what you please.

You take priority. You get whatever you want, whenever you want. You are waited on hand-and-foot.

When you speak of your paradise, you use the words “Peace” and “Love” where the logician would rather place “Helplessness” and “Complacency.”

You might even go so far as to use religious references: “Better to serve in heaven than reign in hell,” some great writers have argued.

By that logic, would that not make you God—the undisputed sovereign—in your ideal world?

The ambitious strive for paradise. The rest settle for whatever piece of it they can get.

Paradise is built upon the corpses of others who pursue the same goal.

Paradise is word, used by most, but most dont completely comprehend the meaning. It is a place that the human mind strives for, yet can never obtain. It is a place where all things are free, whether the beer, or the animals, it does not matter. In paradise, there are no chains, ropes, guns or knifes, because in paradise, there is no such thing as war. In paradise, there are no allies, because there are no enemies to fight. In paradise, there is no law, because there is no one to break it. In paradise the beaches do not end, and the moutains do not erode with the wind and rain. It may be saddening to know that this place is far from our grasp, but hold on to hope, for this place is still alive in the hearts of all.