Dear non-denominational deity, if you exist (and even are formed enough as a concept to be considered a “you”), I hope you might look kindly on this collection of words. I hope that you exist, not really because of any jumped-up pride I may have about being descended from monkeys, lizards and fish, but rather because I would be infinitely disappointed if I found out that I was nothing but a collection of chemical processes, colluding to produce this walking, talking machine who thinks that it thinks its own thoughts. In fact, you don't even have to be a formed deity. Deity is the wrong word. I'd be very happy with a self-sufficient energy net that is imbued with even the tiniest iota of benevolence. Indeed, maybe the title (borrowed from one of my favourite poems, thank you Mr Thomas) leads us in the wrong direction already, but for now we will keep it as it stands because it alludes to a mutually understandable place, where things are better than they are here.

If there is no heaven then, that's fine, but please can there be some sort of soul waiting-room where I can not only catch my breath but also catch up on all my reading?

Before I get there though (and hopefully that won't be any time soon, because I still have a fairly long to-do list), I was hoping I could receive some help.

Please help me to retain that popping, sizzling fire that gnaws into my stomach at night, when I can't sleep and my brain zings with excitement at ideas still to take form out of the nothingness.
Please let that fire fill me up, and keep me grasping for brilliance. And when I grab a-fleeting-hold of it, please let me suck the juice from the pulp until it is absolutely dry. And when that is done, please remind me that there is still more to be had and that I can make a perfectly serviceable man-kini out of the peel of the fruit. And when that man-kini is no longer serviceable, let me remember that the next jolt of brilliance is on its way. I just need to receive it.
On top of that, I remind myself that the person I am now, in my 23rd year to heaven, is who I was always meant to become. I do not regret the things that have happened before, because if they did not happen I would be somebody else. If I met myself sans life-experiences I would probably find myself rather boring.
Please help me to like myself. Just a little.
Please help me to come to terms with my own body. I've been living inside it for 23 years now, and I'm still trying.
Beauty, in all its transcendent forms exists. It still exists. Let my eyes be open to it; from a fatherly pat on the head to a holy mountain that chokes me with majesty.
Teach me and remind me that emotion is necessary. That I need it to be a human, and being a human is the best thing to be.
Give me the courage to wear my heart on my sleeve sometimes. To admit weakness. I'm not a robot and I'm not an automaton. On that note, let me place this collection into the public sphere without fear of being mocked, or derided. May anyone who reads this approach it with the innocence I have tried to tap into.
On the subject of my lost innocence, I knew it had to go and I wish it could have stayed with me longer. One can't hold onto it forever, but please let me be able to tap into it when I need it.
I know that I'm allergic to negative energy. Please allow me to become a little more immune.
I've been imbued, somehow, with the optimistic sense that, “it doesn't have to be like this.” Please let me never lose that. As much as it twists my insides and comes crushing down on me when I turn off the lights and the walls around me shoot off into the distance.
Remind me, always, that I have the ability to stand next to myself and assess my own actions. In this way, I can act in the best possible way for not only myself, but other people too.
On the sense of doom that gnaws at my ankles, please help me to kick back at it and leave it behind on the ground, because it can't survive without a host. If I'm inclined to look back it, to watch it writhe in the dust, please let me think of Lot and Orpheus, not for the fact that I will lose it forever, but because that pillar of salt, that denizen of the underworld, needs the tiniest amount of attention in order for it to reattach itself.
I know, to quote again, that the world doesn't end with bang. It ends with wide-eyed, whimpering, gibbering fear. But please, let me experience as much of the bang as I can before I need to whimper.


If I seem verbose, pompous, self-serving, I apologise non-denominational-deity/energy net/construction of my hope – I realise that this list is not really meant for you. It is meant for me.

Yours in ibuprofen and diazepam,
Paul White