Hm Love Pt. 2

One night, God came to me in a dream in a white coat and stethoscopes and announced in Morgan Freeman's voice, "Son, your time is here." I stepped into the blinding flash and cupids took me by my arms, one whispering in my ear it was not too late to turn back and the other, promising the concoction of a most powerful poison for the point of his next arrow, but I gave back a meek smile and shook my head, my hands, feeling under the chest pocket of my hoodie, the outlines of my two scars, the only time I would touch the faces of these precious ones. Higher and higher we soared, and memories flooded my brain, of times I leaned back against my pillow and with Kweli and Hi Tek in the air like Mary Jane, dreamed of this ascent over and over except I wasn't flying to meet God but flying with his Dear Creation, and reality or dream, I was going all in like that Harrison Bergeron shit. But my wings were not of metal that gleams like the smile of mysterious men but of paper plastered with wax, and the descent was agonizingly slow, the melted wax running down my cheeks, the cupid's arrow in my chest spinning in all directions, and my mind recoiling at the thought of landing. Yet even through the free fall, I could close my eyes and with the artifice of reasonable doubt, spirit of exhaustive scientific inquiry that doesn't take maybe, perhaps, or probably for an answer, conjure up the hope of anti-gravity and give contradicting testimony against my own witnesses of senses and soul like I was taking Stanley Milgram's test. Then the ground finally hit me, the hallucinations disappeared, and I stood up bruised and maimed, feeling lucky to have made it, then inspected the new scar my arrow had scrawled on my skin, crooked caricature borne from my very own Pandora's Box, but a man does not lie to himself about the purity of the past and no amount of distortion could repress the scent of her perfume or the glory of fated nights when the alignment of three dimensions blessed me with chance encounters, the kind where the gravity of the moment and sacredness of the world cheapen any physical interaction so you let your spirit leave your body and embrace her. But that was then and I finally arrived at the operating table of heaven with no fear of death, cupids securely strapping my arms and legs and God offering the anesthesia of graphic visions of Mary Magdalene and lonely men, which I refused of course, and as His swift hands of creation set about replacing my old-fashioned heart once and for all with man's new clever invention that pumps and does not feel, I felt the surge of empty mirth filling my veins again and chuckled to myself that deep down inside, I just wanted to be Harrison Bergeron.