Rain

A long and practiced Existentialist, he stood in the rain. His jacket was inside and he felt nothing as the rain washed over and, eventually, through him. He was being tested. For years beyond number, he’d believed. Many had challenged him saying that he could not build a belief out of a denial. They had all missed the point. His beliefs were not built on a denial; they were built on a celebration, a celebration of life and its beauty, its horror.

As he stood in the rain he wanted to fold. He was very close. His strength had always come from not a belief, but his certainty that this was how it was.

One day, a beautiful young creature broke his wall, as only someone like her could. He went so far as to tattoo her, in abstract, on his chest, over his heart. She had awoken something in him and never laid a hand upon him.

This didn’t help the rain.

A lifetime of study and pursuit could not keep him from returning to a place in his mind, a word: fair.

There is no fair. There is no guiding light.

Only the wounded need something to lean on as they walk.

Again the rain.

His thoughts went to a child. First the one he lost, then the one suffering the pain and humiliation of sickness.

Who wants to live in a world where you must choose between arbitrary suffering or the machinations of a sick prankster, concerned only with His own glory?

I do.

I will.

Because I know that nature hates a vacuum. I know that nature fills the void. Take from me. Give to him.

I am one of those bastards the universe creates who cannot die under its rules. I fear not the darkness. Take that insane courage from me and feed it to him as strength. Give me the hurt. I can take it. Take it from him and give it to someone who volunteers as I do.

Rapists, murderers, pedophiles, they breathe the air. Take it from them to give to him. But if you are to stay arbitrary, let me volunteer. I can survive it. I will survive because my only true care is to live and live large. I will live small if it means that he just lives.

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