Abel's Confessions - Selections


For you are a stranger, like me; I reveal to you the true nature of my feelings. For you are poor, like me; I share with you the heaviest of my burdens. For you are disillusioned with everything, like me; I conjure you into being and call you Brother. O Brother. O son of our Father who insists on staying in heaven, and our Mother who proudly walks upon the earth. O soul mate of the Holy Jinn, deep within, and the primordial Word. Can you see now how creation really began?


It is said, Brother, that before anything got made, there was only longing and stillness, hope and light. And Tiamat* was still our caring Mother. The certainty of birth dispelled all these illusions, Brother. Birth is indeed pain. The Buddha was right. Yes. The Buddha was right. All blasphemers are usually right, in their own rather peculiar ways. For truth is forever on the side of blasphemy. You would do well to remember that, Brother.

* Tiamat: the primordial goddess of the ocean and of chaos according to ancient Mesopotamian traditions.


We are creatures of the light, Brother, and creatures of the dark, creatures of silence, and creatures of Tumult, creatures of awe, creatures of submission, creatures of longing and creatures of deprivation, creatures of ambition and creatures of despair, creatures of the divine, and creatures of the demonic. We can never escape these dualities, Brother. Mani* was also right, Brother. Yes. Another blasphemer is right. And truth will forever be on the side of blasphemy. Do you now know why my offering was accepted? I blasphemed, Brother. I blasphemed.

* Mani: the founder of the ancient religion of Manichaeism, which was premised on a dualistic cosmology.


Blaspheme along with me, Brother. A city so tranquilized by religion can only be revived through blasphemy.


Are you wondering who I really am, Brother? Know, then, that I am nothing but a cadaver, Brother—a cadaver still nervously twitching, although she has been a cadaver for too long.

A cadaver still despairingly mimicking life, yet fooling no one but herself (and now perhaps also you, Brother). A cadaver like any other cadaver you may encounter on your merry way toward the marketplace on some hapless Friday morning.

A cadaver that wants you to listen to her prayer-like hallucinations for a day or part of a day.  A cadaver that has quite a few things to confess to you, Brother, and no one but you could listen. A cadaver that needs your priestly services, Brother, though you may not realize yet that you are a priest. A cadaver that longs for your attentive ears, Brother, and your recipient soul. Would you be so kind as to accommodate the needs of this wretched cadaver, Brother? After all, she is of your making, isn’t she? She is in a way your very daughter, Brother.


Inquire not as to my home, Brother. Inquire not as to my belonging and identity. For I have no home, I have no belonging, and I have no identity. I can exist only where love cannot, where warmth is a phantom, and fulfillment—a myth. These facts do indeed torment me, Brother. But I have long learned to embrace my destiny and yearn only for you—my savior and executioner.


Brother, I am but the son of the dying God crying out in the city—will you not listen?


I am the wandering Aramean, Brother, who spends his time haggling with God. I am the pretentious Can’anite, who wastes his time believing he is God. I am the sleep walking Syrian, who dreams up history. I am the lowly Israelite, who longs to be chosen, even if for misery. I am the perennial fool, Brother—the perennial fool who derives his self-worth from the lies he tells himself.


I don’t want a sun in my sky, Brother. I have no need for a moon. A star, or two, will suffice for me in my all but too shy coexistence with loneliness and misery on the cold margins of things. Speak of mediocrity, Brother. I am mediocrity incarnate.


Silence makes all things clear, Brother, while words tend to obscure everything. That is why I will never stop talking. Please, don’t you ever stop listening.