} Chapter 65 | Suicidal In Heaven – A Journey Of Choices by giovanicesconetto at Inkitt

Suicidal in Heaven – A Journey of Choices

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65

LXV

As I wait for my meal, and to try to distract myself from how I’m able to feel sadness in heaven, I take the GPS from my pocket and check my position. I know where I can’t be, but that still leaves me with three options. If I had to guess, I’d guess I’m in “no man’s land”. It was in a similar place that I had my first experience with other people and demons in hell, except for the reception counter, so, why would it be different here in heaven?

Of course it was different, and I wondered if it was different pure and simply ’cause I had imagined it would be a place when, in fact, was another. Heaven’s goal is not let people feel sad, so, making them be themselves, up to a certain point, would be an effective way of making them happy. Deep down, we all want to be who we are (in my opinion). Be who I am consisted in many characteristics, and one of them was always guess wrong. Therefore, I’d made mistakes because of the manipulation of forces greater than me. Now I need to know if I was teleported the moment I thought, or if it was written somewhere that I would make a mistake. But the problem is that, making mistakes all the time, even if it is part of who I am, also makes me very sad. My life would be much better if my margin of accuracy in trials was bigger, and it didn’t need to be much, slightly superior would be nice. So, at the same time that making me recognize me as myself might be an intelligent strategy to make me happy, it’s also a fast way to make me sad.

Does this make any sense? Was it a complex thought about nothing? I hate it when I do that. I don’t even know where I was getting at, but in my mind, the idea seemed clear and obvious. When I begin to develop it, everything goes very wrong… Again I’m making mistakes in an attempt. In this case, the attempt to increase an idea to more than just that. Making a simple thing become a complex and intricate theory about me. How I’d love to try and get it right…

But not all of it was useless, the thought generated a big and interesting doubt: does fate exist? Is everything written in a book with pages on the verge of the infinite? If there is heaven and hell, it makes sense to think that such a thing can exist. There are religions that preach that, right? I would love to have studied that more while I was alive. But, at the same time, I remember that God’s greatest gift was free-will, which kind of excludes the idea of everything being written, right? How can we truly be free if everything we do is written? I remember something saying both aren’t mutually exclusive, and all that’s written are possibilities. So we have freedom to choose everything, but all is foreseen. We can choose paths “A” or “B”, that’s our freedom, free will. But, somewhere, a book of destiny, maybe, everything’s written. Whether it is the choice of path “A” or “B”. So, that book would have whole lives that never happened, only because the choice that was made was another. But, then, I ask myself, does the book goes on until that person’s death? Let’s say someone chooses path “A”, will “B” go on? ’Because if it has already been written before the person was born, which I think it’s exactly what characterizes fate, it would be impossible to know what the person would choose. Considering free-will actually exists, ’cause, if it doesn’t, there’s no true choice. If it’s impossible, every possibility would have to be written and foreseen. But I think none of that exists. But it’s a thought with no conviction whatsoever. Not that it matters, the only thing that matters is finding out where I am.

I look at the GPS and see I’m wrong. There’s no common area, which was my guess, I’m in Gabriel’s kingdom. It makes sense. I don’t think I’m was able to go to Michael’s kingdom, and I wouldn’t even want to risk it. Fanatics are dangerous, so imagine a fanatic that has the power of God. And I also think it wouldn’t make sense to enter Raphael’s kingdom, I don’t feel I’m being cured. I don’t feel my soul losing its sins and being purified. Deep down, I had just two options of places to go. Weird, I feel I have less freedom in heaven than I had in hell. Am I being heretic again? Probably yes, I could start another long and complex thought that would lead me nowhere, maybe just to the conclusion that I think too much without results. Which would make me feel depressed, which would lead me to a depression even greater when I realized the irony that it is to feel depressed in paradise. I almost follow that path, but the angel-waiter arrives at the exact moment in which the thought begins to form in my mind, bringing the most perfect and wonderful lasagna I’ve ever seen in my life.

Even without trying it, even without smelling it, I know I’ll love it. I know that never before, and probably after, I’ll taste something so tasty as that lasagna. The smell of it just increases my certainty that it is the best dish of my life (or death). I can’t even think straight, my motor functions shut down. I find myself facing the perfect lasagna, feel the drool running from my open mouth. I can’t even register what the angel says (but must be something like: enjoy your meal, I hope you like it, if you need anything, feel free to call me; waiters always say that). All I can do is admire the perfection.

Time for contemplation comes to its end, unconsciously I grab the fork and knife and start eating. The flavor explodes in my mouth. It’s extremely succulent, the ingredients are balanced, each bite is a new surprise, a new taste presents itself, my tangs feel bliss. It’s not just the ingredients that are infinitely (celestially, maybe) better than anything that exists on Earth, it’s also the preparation and, as cliché as it might sound, the love. It’s possible to feel the chef’s love for what he does; not just cooking, but the love of cooking for other people. Furthermore, I can feel the love he has for his costumers, ’cause only being in love with cooking, with serving and with the person who’s going to eat, is that such dish can be what it is: perfect.

I eat, eat and eat. I eat ’till I think I’ll blow up, but without ever feeling that I’ll actually blow up. I eat a lot, but the feeling is that I’m just satisfied. I only stop ’cause I have to, ’cause the food on the plate doesn’t end. But it disappears when I decided to stop. I stopped ’cause I felt I was on the verge of gluttony. I didn’t want to stop, but also didn’t want to go back to hell. So I put the dish aside, and the waiter comes to offer me dessert. I love sweets, but I refuse, I don’t want to ruin the perfect flavor of lasagna in my mouth. I get up, knowing my underwear, at some point, got soiled, it was impossible to control the release of endorphin I felt while eating. This meal had given me more pleasure than all the times I’d had sex while alive. It was an orgasm of almost an hour.

I left the restaurant with a smile that, impossible as it may seem, went from ear to ear. I could eat that lasagna for the rest of eternity, that’s why favorited the restaurant in the GPS. I looked ahead, and saw paradise with different eyes. Maybe it was the first time I saw it as actual paradise. I said it in loud voice:

Very well, what else do you have to offer?

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