You are not welcome. You know this and you respect this. There is no remedy. Heroism as redemption is but a fantasy. No kudos are bestowed for your suffering. You will die alone, forgotten. The headstone of your grave will have deeply incised lettering. But what of it? The occasional human may see it further into the future than we may gaze upon a colonial one today with its oxymoronically cheery death's head. But likely, this will occur while the future visitor is enroute to a viewing of his or her loved one's marker. There will be an infinitesimal moment of conscious recognition that you once lived, but no imaginings or interest in who you were will probably happen. To avoid this you might consider a funny epitaph; it may cause a pause, a chuckle…but nothing more.
Self pity will grow tiresome, especially for you while mouldering in your casket. If hell be your destination, maybe an old friend's imagined tale will be an eschatological reality as you squat on those hot coals: relief in the form of a single drop of Coca Cola placed upon your tongue once every millennium by an angelic and saved former friend. Buried alive and unable to die: this is your end unending. Maybe love can find a way. Maybe this is all a bad dream. The boulders, collapsed timbers and rubble are yours to move and dig you must. "Despair is the only true sin" you heard remarked somewhere. Again, is this real or just the shadows of a cautionary tale? Would that an extended hand, yours or another's, could be seen and heard accompanied by an "I'm sorry." Peace, oh lovely peace….may it enter your world and cradle you with Gandhian compassion or the understanding of Old Abe.
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