You grant him life and he complains of death. You assure him of an eternity – he says he’d rather enjoy the moment. You give him death, he whines about folly of life. You tell him how it is and how its supposed to – but he’s far more concerned with what he wants it to be. You warn him of himself – he warns you. It’s for your own good you say, but he’s more convinced of his supposedly far-reaching foresight. You tell him there is a time and season for everything, a time for perfection and peace but sadly none is hastier then him, determined to find it here and now. He struggles, sweats and bleeds. He cannot find it and the emptiness begins to consume him. He feels hopeless and dejected, raises his fist to the heavens and scorns you!
Why have you forsaken me he says!
You assure him of your unwavering love, of the nature of this world – that man’s quasi-divinity comes at hefty price! “You are a traveller” you tell him, but he says he’d like to stay and reside. “Plant your seeds” you tell him, but he says he is happier consuming. You remind him that you and you alone gave him life, but sadly he takes it for granted, as if he inherently has the right to live. In his most dire frustration, he demands knowing why you’ve brought him into existence—that he’d be better off in naught. He wonders why you didn’t ask ‘him’ first? Lest he enjoys non-existence and finds it far more comfortable and promising… You remind him of his dependence, of his ‘borrowed’ volition, of his pseudo-identity—but alas he just won’t listen, so intoxicated in the wine of life, the cup he was forbidden from drinking; the vinous fruit he should have never ate.
How do you teach a man what he does not wish to learn?
