Dear Oscar, My dear Oscar. Your heart tells me you have thought to have bathed in the pool of The Pleasure that abideth for a moment. But there is still room for you here. Because of this you shall not suffer The Sorrow that endureth forever.
There is no thing such as this sorrow that shall endureth forever. 'Tis but a moment in time that these on earth have told you will be your forever undoing. In Hell have you always lived not because I have said it is so, but because they have caused you to cast yourself thereinto its hands.
But these hands are your own, and their image do you cast upon my face, my body becoming a wretched serpent who has placed the fruit of the tree of knowledge within your grasp and told you never to bite. But devour you must, and consume it you will just as I had expected.
Weep not. This boy raised from the dead has been given new life not because he was meant only to be the proof of miracle, and thus, mere spectacle; but because this shall be his new lease. You are my attestation to a people treading water. Do not tread these waters, they are grace. Allow yourself to sink.
Have you done no reading of your own? Surely the hand that pens such woeful tales has read my pages and found fault with the logic of men. Perhaps even your spirit felt a compulsion to heed my Love. It is all there is. And back and forth you were pulled, between poison and potentiality, toward the path paved by the blood of those unworthy, of they who hold themselves as the perfectly pious, the infallible theologians, the proper priests putting forth a plague of power from my pages for purposes none other than to preach prejudice, practice pain, and take a pass on peace.
But you are my child, my Oscar. And search though you may, nay have I spoken against you, but always on your behalf. They will lie next to fools, will fear me forever as they still believe I ask it of them. But here you will lie next to me in the House of Love, in the arms of Peace, and lay your head, you will, each night upon my heart. You will hear it beats for thee. You are the son of man much as the rest. Heaven is yours, not because never, and in no place, have you been able to imagine it, but because it simply cannot be imagined.
Here and now you are risen, forgiven not by me for what you thought was at once your fault, but by thyself. There is no fault here. There is only you and I. Never have you had the perfect knowledge of I, and never should you have. But my perfect Love comes not now, upon this absolution, rather is has been with you all these days. At last, you see, it cools your brow, washes your feet, and replaces your ring.
Come, sit. There is room on my right.