Born Again

What could possibly be more pleasant for eternity than nonexistence? No harm; no fouls. No problem. I figure I didn’t exist for 13.8 billion years and don’t recall one moment of it being ever being an issue—that is, since moments actually began way back then.

Non-existence. Pre-existence. So peaceful. So worry- and trouble-free…Did I not know how good I had it?

Then I was born. That’s when all the trouble started.

I had to jockey around those proverbial slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, navigate the roads less taken, and step over all the landmines pocking my journey. And I had to do it while everyone else was doing the same, like it was a race! Elbowing and all. No one makes it easy for you; there are no single set of footsteps in the sand that indicates you were carried by anyone.

Before I was born, I had no difficulties whatsoever. There was no stumbling. No bruises. No broken bones.

Now I have a mortgage payment due by the 15th before penalties and interest accrue. I worry about what others are saying about me—people I don’t even know. The dog next door keeps crapping on my lawn. Does the Universe care? Does Eternity care? Meanwhile, no, I’m the one who better care.

And I have a damn fungus on one of my toes.

What about this afterlife business? To what part of existence does it belong? Is it a continuation of the life of the universe—forever and ever? Or outside of all that, is it as much a part of what came before the Big Bang as nothing? Because that’s what it was.

Nothing.

Nonexistence.

And as far as I was concerned ("was"—a grammatical self-violation of the verb, to be, in a time before anything actually was...) As far as I was/will be/never was concerned, it was peace on Earth.

Pleasant, stress-free, and problem-free nonexistence. Where I want to be.

Again.

I want to be reborn into that. But how? How do I do that? This is new ground for me, single footsteps, notwithstanding. Do I just die? Or am I trapped in this problematic universe and its ridiculous number line, where I walk with a pebble in my shoe? How aggravating is that? (Is—another self-violation from where I offer these sentiments.)

Jesus told Judas it would be better had he never been born. (Who didn’t know that would end badly?) He didn’t say “I wish you were dead,” or, “I hope you die.” I think about that. A lot. When God Himself regrets your creation, your very existence, your very having been, you can’t get more guilt-shamed than that.

That’s a real low point.

So, I have to rethink this non-existence thing. Maybe it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I think I just might need a Supreme Being. Besides my mortgage and toe fungus, I need Him for a lot of other things. Is my need for Him the same as loving Him? Adoring Him? Where is the line drawn between needing and loving? I don’t know, but I’ll never find out by never having been.

Never having been is breaking even. A zero-sum game. Time spent, it would seem, is me spending it. I wonder, could I be more alone than never having been?

Thus, a mid-course correction:

Consider me re-born. A born-again existentialist; even though some guy named Nietzsche went on and on about it as an atheist.

I guess I just want God to be glad I ever was. Even before I ever was. And He should know: if otherwise, He’s been known to say so.