Eternity

Eternity, philosopher. Does that word have any meaning? Do philosophers use it? Is it respectable? Is it the kind of word you use?

I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what I’m saying when I say the word, eternity. Is it nonsense? Does it mean anything? Do all words have to mean things?


Are we in God’s hands, philosopher? Or are we in Mother’s hands? Whose hands are we in? Who are we held by? I suppose you believe that we’re not held by anyone at all.


Is it God’s word: eternity? Does it belong to God? What does it mean for a word to belong to God?


We’re walking along the shore. Is that supposed to mean something? Is it supposed to be About something, capital A?


What if all this was just an offering to God, all this? You and I. And everything we say. And think. And feel. What about that, philosopher?


It’s what I feel. Does what I feel mean anything to you? We feel all sorts of things, don’t we?

Are we just fools, philosopher? Are we deceived, all the time? Do we lie to ourselves and to each other? Are we in disguise? Do we live behind masks? Then how can we take them off: our masks? How can we show who we are?

Who are we? Who, today, tomorrow? Who were we yesterday, and the day before that?

And what are these words we use? To … express ourselves. To express ourselves: those words feel wrong.

The words we use. The words that use us to speak them. The words we speak. The words that speak through us. These words.

Are they God’s words, too? Does God speak through our words, too? And what does God say? What is God saying – even now? Even with my words?

What is it, language? What does it allow? What does it let us say, and prevent us from saying? Does language stand in our way? Where is it leading us, language? Where is it taking us?


Nothing has to happen the way it does. This moment doesn’t have to follow that one. We needn’t have been here, today, at the coast. We didn’t have to be here, and together. We didn’t have to meet not today, and not at any time. This didn’t have to happen, any of this.


Here we are, at the coast. Whitley Bay beach. On the promenade.

Why did we have to be here? What’s the good of our being here? Does God want us here? Did God bring us here? Were we following God’s … orders? Were we meant to come here? For what, philosopher? For what?


The question questions. It’s asking. There’s an asking. We’re part of the question. And it’s as though the whole world were asking. As though everything were asking. It’s as if it were all asking, and we were all asking.

Everything asks the question of itself: is that a stupid thing to say, philosopher? Is it an unphilosophical thing to say?


What about God, philosopher? The question of God: is that a thing? The question that belongs to God?

I feel very close to God, you know. Isn’t that stupid? Isn’t it stupid that I would feel close to God? But I do. I feel close to God.

And God is close to me. And God is close to us. And God is watching us. And maybe Mother is, too.

Maybe Mother is God, a version of God. Who says God has to be a he? Couldn’t God be a mother, too? There’s the mother-God in Hinduism, isn’t there?


Have we been false to God? False to ourselves? I want to pray, philosopher. I want to say words in prayer. I want to pray to the Most High God. Do you understand that?

It’s a beautiful word, prayer. It’s as beautiful as the word, God.

Where is God, philosopher? Does God still listen to us? Does God still walk with us, with the whole of humankind?

If I ask him, will he speak to me? Will we show that he was already here? That he’s always been here. That he will always be here.



Are we false to him? Do we lie to him? Do we lie to ourselves? Are our lives lies? Are what we are just lies? Untruths?


Can we re enter Paradise, philosopher? Can we return to Paradise? But seraphim guard the gates with flaming swords. We can’t go back. We have to go forward. We have to wander the earth. Looking for a way back. Looking to return to Paradise.

But perhaps Paradise is here, too.

This is Hell. We live in Hell.

Perhaps what you call Hell is part of Paradise.


I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t know what’s guiding me. Maybe I’m just saying stupid things. And maybe that’s not so bad, saying stupid things. Maybe the things that need to be said have to be stupid.

I’m repeating myself. These words are repeating themselves. These words … the rhythm of these words. That seems more important … at least as important as what is said. As what I am saying.


God’s Word: is it like our words? Does God speak like we do?


Are we still alive, philosopher? How could we tell? Is this a real life or a false life? Are we in a real world or a false world? And what about those other worlds – what are we doing in them, the other worlds?

Are we walking on the shore? Are we at Whitley Bay? Are we together, you and I? Are we talking you and I? And what are we talking about in those other words, you and I?

Are we happy, in those other worlds? Happier, anyway, philosopher. Are you happy? Are you a philosopher or a would-be philosopher or whatever it is you are?

What kind of people are we in the other worlds? Did we leave Paradise in the other world? Did we Fall, in the other world? Imagine, if we could have just stayed forever in Paradise …

Are we as wretched over there, in the other world? Are we damned, in the other worlds? Are we hated in the other words? Do we hate, in the other worlds?

Are we weeping, in the other worlds? Do the tears run over our sore eyes, in the other worlds?

Do we know peace in the other worlds? What does that word mean, philosopher: peace? Does it mean anything, the word, peace?

What does the word rest mean, philosopher? Does it mean anything, the word, rest?

Or are we just falling and falling and falling?