God Does Not Exist in the Morning

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Thunder.

This can’t possibly be real. Who am I? Why do I exist? I’ve been interrupted so suddenly from a dreamless sleep. I wasn’t ready. This can’t be real, it must be a mistake.

I’m afraid. It’s the moment before the familiar has returned to me, and I cannot accept anything at all. There ought to be nothing; there ought not to be something. There simply cannot be a God, for I’d have felt him by now. He ought not to be there either.

Hail. My hand to the window, peel back the blind. Never seen anything like this before—they’re never this big, it’s never this dense. Seems as if the very sky is falling. Feels like the moment in a heated argument before violence. But no climax comes. I see it all as a stranger might, if such a stranger could be imagined. A stranger who knows nothing of something; a stranger who knows only of nothing. I feel as if I’m seeing everything as it actually is, all strange and horrific. The grey sky, the car in the driveway, sheets in the bed—my very thoughts—are completely empty. There can be no God, for I’d have felt him by now. It’s been seconds since the thunder, and I am still afraid.

I will slip back into bed; I’ll slip back out of existence. If I awake, then, I awake comfortable and deluded. I will see things as they seem. For there have been many mornings, even without the thunder, where nothing seems. Only that horrible paradox; that terrifying place where there is no sense, no meaning even in the denial of meaning. Down here, where I am, God does not exist in the morning. I cannot wake until he does.

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2 Responses to “God Does Not Exist in the Morning”

  1. I love being woken up by thunder. I get jolted awake, realize what’s happening, and drift back into an extremely warm, peaceful sleep while listening to it. Thunder, lightning, torrential downpours all make God’s presence so much more palpable to me. That’s why I go outside during wicked storms – I can feel/smell/hear him there, and so I go out to play.

    I heard on the news that people were taking shelter from the hail in stores, etc., running inside covered in hail-induced cuts, so I would not have gone out in that.

  2. Stephanie Says:

    Fear is a beautiful thing–in the way that a naked perfect specimen of humanity is beautiful.

    I often hallucinate while trying to sleep, and sometimes when not wanting to sleep at all. During my last year of college or so, there were a handful of times where I woke up and had absolutely no idea where I was. This had never happened to me before.

    But I have never experienced losing self-awareness or the awareness that a providential power is looking out for me.

    It also occurred to me during my last year in school that God could take away my ability to perceive things at any time; that this was not a skill or quality I owned by right. You write of things “seeming”. Not that they fail to exist if they fail to “seem” to us, but our lack of perception and understanding of them at any level at all suggests our own lack of existence. I wonder if Hell has much to do with this state of non-being. The newer sci-fi series entitled “Dollhouse” plays with a form of punishment that strips away a person’s ability to process thought or harbor memory, described as “almost remembering what you were about to say all the time,” or something like that.

    I think of what this state of the mind would be like–not like a coma, I assume, in which your brain is not receiving information from outside stimuli, but a state in which you are aware of the information coming at you but cannot process it, perhaps the ultimate language barrier–and I think of the paraplegic man who wrote his biography by blinking his eyelids to indicate letters of the alphabet. I expect that the former state would be the worse affliction.

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