Exhausted Person’s Monologue and God’s Answer

Author: Gvantsa Pkhaladze

“You are free, completely free.” These are the words that come to mind when I think about myself, but it’s a lie—a big lie, an illusion. Call it whatever you want. For the last two years, I’ve been begging God for forgiveness, though I don’t even know what I’ve done. I was an artist… I was… I was once human, but not anymore. Time has changed; the world has changed. My memory is blurred, and I can’t think of anything that truly matters. As I said, I was an artist. My body was made of dust, and my soul once reflected God. But now, I am no longer an artist; I am no longer free. Sometimes, I feel disgusted by this strange sensation—sadness, melancholy? I don’t know. The only thing I do know is that this feeling has been following me for years, like a lost leaf in the wind. I was once an artist; I could write and write all day, but not anymore. Time has changed, and I have changed. I can’t even recognize myself. I get irritated easily, and sometimes I even think I’m better than everyone else. That thought disgusts me. One moment, I feel on top of the world; the next, I’m utterly lost. This unhealthy obsession with being the best has gone too far. I wanted my writing to mesmerize people, but I don’t know if that’s possible anymore. Sometimes, I just want to hide in my own bubble and stay there for the rest of my life. Other times, my ego teases me, telling me to do something that no one has ever done before. This competition exhausts me; I compete with others, with myself, and it’s draining. The idea of being forgotten kills my soul. What if I just disappeared? I don’t mean my physical self, but my writing persona—the “me” as a writer. What would happen then? Nothing? That’s it? If my writing persona dies, I might visit its grave, maybe even bring roses. Or perhaps I’d just stand by, stare, and then walk away, moving on with life and finding happiness. But I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to give up, not ready to let my writer self go. If I did, I would betray God, and it would kill my heart. Yet, if I don’t, I risk destroying my public self, the one that many know. It’s a dilemma. What will I do? What will I think? I don’t know. I don’t know…

                                                                God’s Answer

• So, what was God’s answer?

• I have no idea.

• Really? Why?

• I mean, I don’t know. No one knows how God would answer such a prayer.

• Then why pray?

• Why pray? Maybe because it can help your soul?

• How can something help my soul if the soul is abstract?

• Is the mind also abstract?

• Yes, it is.

• The soul isn’t completely abstract. The mind might be, but the soul isn’t.

• Then what is it made of?

• Everything you love, think, and feel.

• Maybe, but what did God say?

• To that prayer, to that monologue?

• Yes.

 • I told you, I don’t know.

 • So He didn’t say anything?

• I didn’t say that.

• Oh, please, just talk to me straightforwardly for once.

• Well, God probably did something that helped this person. It wasn’t words, but actions that helped her.

• Alright, now I understand. What do you think?

• Not much.

• I mean, what would you say to that person?

• I would say that God is a creator, and the ability to create something meaningful is the greatest honor He can give you.

• What if she couldn’t create anymore?

• She could. She just needed to find harmony within herself and with the world.

• You mean finding harmony between her public self and her writing self?

• Probably.

• But if the “writer self” must die, what if it’s not enough?

 • Nothing happens without reason. If the writer self was meant to remain, it will stay.

God didn’t say anything—well, He probably did, but we couldn’t hear it. Instead, He did something valuable and meaningful for this person…

If it was than it was meant to stay.

“You are free, completely free. Your writer self is free.” That’s probably what God wanted to say. If she stopped writing, she would lose an essential part of her soul, and that, dear readers, is the real tragedy.