The Question

I see Jesus, his semitic features shadowed by the trees of Gethsmane, standing alone with his god.
He mutters “My soul is troubled, even to death… let this cup pass from me.”

I watch Hamlet, on the battlements of Elsinore, standing alone with the ghost of his father.
He swears “The time is out of joint. O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!”

I breathe Jesus and Hamlet, Oedipus and Moses, standing, sparring with the divine
curse of human will.
I want to know my destiny.

I travel to the World Tree, and closing myself, sink beneath the roots to the triplet Norns who spin, who measure and who cut the threads of life. I find that their stools are empty. At Delphi the tripod is unoccupied. The bush does not burn for me.
Did I miss my oracle?

My death arrives without a tally book; without the craven Riches and Good Deeds that attended Everyman. My death comes not through the mirror, not to the door, but from within and with a familiar smile. There is no waiting Virgil, no Beatrice, no Lethe, no Peter; only a cooling breath
and a skating across.
Who will be my judge?

Now, in whatever is after the gliding ends, will be the knowledge. I will learn what my Calvary was to have been. I will be told the name of my Claudius, my Pharoah, my fate, my calling. I will finally be told why. He will tell me “This is the reason you were put on the earth. This was your reason for being” and I will know if I have failed. Or succeeded. I will ask the ultimate question and I will get satisfaction. I will be told.
She whispers “Tell us. Tell us now why you have lived.”
I don’t know.
“We are gods, we only ask the question.”
The purpose of life is to have a purpose for living.

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