Strawberry Souls

They gurgle a bit as they chunk their way down the disposal. Strawberry tops sliced deftly off their bodies, cast aside on the burial heap of waste. Mourned by no one. I am the lone funeral attender as I flick the switch by the sink and hear strawberry souls clunking together, pulverized into pieces, slid into sewage.

Is this how God feels? The thought slips into my brain, slides slowly around the gray mass and matter that makes me feel and think and hurt and breathe.

It’d be so easy to just not care. To flick the divine switch, watch us disappear into nothingness, become exhausted from seeing soul after soul simply slowly slippery, slide, slip! Then be no more.

It must hurt to be God. Or does he become tired of it all, exhausted by the daily grind. The prospect of more souls waiting for damnation, of more souls hungering for salvation, rising out of every nation He can’t deny his creation, yet sin poses a complication and the duration of time spent being God must get so long.

What is it like to flick the switch every day?

To bring a soul up, to send a soul down? To see the person you created dead in the ground, his soul swimming above him and you know you have to collect that unfortunate masterpiece that you worked so long and hard on and send him hurtling into earth’s depths until he’s eaten by

The garbage disposal. 

Hell.

Dante’s Inferno.

Flames.

Crunching up the leftovers that didn’t make it to the table. Eating up the discarded souls that didn’t cling to Christ.

I wonder if God cries. Or if He simply cuts strawberries everyday, a fact of life, must be done, faster the better, just flip the switch and WHIRRRR there it goes goes gone not to be bothered with until tomorrow the sordid tasks again begs completion.

Can He no longer feel the pain of soul separation and devastation? Strawberry souls and divine switches and garbage disposals that reek of death. I wouldn’t want to be Him.