Beatrice, this is a letter from Hell.
I’m visiting the sepulchre of agony, and the dust, the dust is cloying. I’m here to grow towards God, but all I know is when I see your face my body walks freshly scrubbed through the eternity of circles. Not even Virgil protects like you do.
Beatrice,
Growing towards you is not an option. You’ve bounded yourself with brambles in your lonely castle. You’ve got all the growth you can handle.
Beatrice,
Not one not two not three times I’ve knocked on your door to hear you were a sleeping beauty. You said you were too busy waiting for your prince to open the door to let me in so I walked straight downwards because hey, at least its warm down here.
Beatrice,
Not once not twice but three times you’ve knocked on my church door but you never laid down your 99 theses. You just dashed down a line and hoped it’d be enough to snare me. But one idea isn’t a theology. But one attraction shouldn’t break bonds of monogamy. But one night doesn’t build a real relationship with me so hell no down I go to grow towards god and away from your brambles.
Beatrice,
What am I to you? A chore after Virgil’s shift is done, a temporary traveler to the truth, a mortal that needs handholding to reach Paradiso? Because I love hands and I love holding and hey, with you I’m nowhere short of paradise. But if that’s true, rip the scales from my eyes. If that’s true, tell me no more words fine because hey, I may wander but I’m not a wanderer. I may observe but I’m not just an observer. I may be a stranger but I don’t want to be strange to you so
Beatrice!
Set a torch to your brambles. Set a brush to your tangles. Wipe the dust out your eyes and write me a letter of theological revolution to nail on my door.
Do that and I will rocket past Charon. Do that and I will thumb my nose to Mammon. Do that and I’ll grin at Lucifer as I bound away because evil will have no hold on me.
Until then I’ll be here growing towards God.
Part 3 in a series