Fariha’s Reviews > The Passion According to G.H. > Status Update

...since at least I already knew that being a human is a sensitization, an orgasm of nature. And that, only through an anomaly of nature, instead of being the God, as other beings are He, instead of being He, we wanted to see Him. It would not hurt to see Him, if we were as great as He.

—all I have to do is choose to live. We are free, and that is hell.

With the laughter of pain—and free. The mystery of human destiny is that we are inevitable, but we have the freedom to carry out or not our inevitability: it depends on us to carry out our inevitable destiny. While inhuman beings, like the roach, carry out their own complete cycle, without ever erring because they do not choose. But it depends on me to freely become whatever I inevitably am.

Every world of ours— in the time we called empty— each word was as light and empty as a butterfly: the word from inside fluttering out to meet the mouth, the words were said but we didn't even hear them because the melting glaciers made so much noise as they ran. Amidst the liquid din, our mouths were moving speaking, and in fact we only saw the moving mouths but didn't hear them—

The whole most unreachable part of my soul and which does not belong to me is the one that touches my border with whatever is no longer I, and to which I give myself. All my anguish has been this unsurpassable and excessively close closeness. I am more whatever within me is not.

The roach and I aspire to a peace that cannot be ours—it's a peace beyond the size and destiny of the roach and of me. And because my soul is so unlimited that it is no longer me, and because it is so beyond me—because I am always remote to myself, I am as unreachable to myself as a star is unreachable to me.

And all this is in this very instant, it is in the now. Yet at the.same time the present instant is entirely remote because of the size-grandeur of the God. Because of the enormous perpetual size, even whatever exists right now, is remote: in the very instant that the roach is broken in the wardrobe, it too is remote in relation to the heart of the great self-seeking-indifference that reabsorbs it with impunity.

What still frightened me was that even the unpunishable horror would be generously reabsorbed by the abyss of unending time, by the abyss of unending heights, by the deep abyss of the God: absorbed into the heart of an indifference.

The hellish grandeur of life: since not even my body delimits me, mercy does not let my body delimit me. In hell, my body does not delimit me, and is that what I call soul? Living the life that is no longer the life of my body-is that what I call impersonal soul?

I had, yes, I still had the desire to take refuge in my own fragility and in the sly, yet true, argument that my shoulders were a woman's, feeble and slender. Whenever I had needed to, I'd excused myself by arguing that I was a woman. But I was well aware that it's not just women who are afraid to see, everyone fears seeing what is God.