So we come to the end of things. Another job well done between us.
Bathetic.
There is never any glory, any pride.
Maybe it’s just me. I can’t feel these things others talk about. Satisfaction, pleasure. All I know is the pain, the struggle, and then it’s over.
Meaningless. Every chapter. Every verse. I turn page after page. I search.
Here is the end again. Another end, but no rest. Already, before I have had the chance to sit down, I am commanded to get up.
You speak of heaven as great fun. I do not know fun. I do not know glory. I do not understand the feelings you have. I do not understand how, when we finish another task, you are not like I am, sickened and brokenhearted. I look on our perfected work and think it would be better to cast it all into the rubbish.
I want to feel what you feel, but I cannot. I want to go to heaven, but all I can long for is silence, not music, darkness, not light, sleep.
Is it a sin that I just want to sleep? To sleep and never rise?
Tale Told 