Dispatch from the Afterlife: God is a Fan of the Silent Treatment

I don’t remember dying but I do remember waking up in Heaven. It wasn’t anything like I expected.

Heaven looks like a desert, a red desert, like Mars, and there’s a long line of people, stretching into eternity. They’re all the same age and in the same condition as when they died.

There are soldiers from every war, with gaping wounds, bullet holes that are burbling crimson, so, of course I fit right in, with the big bloody gashes in my limbs. I’m certainly better off than the car accident victims, all mangled and missing arms, legs, yeesh...

There’re even people who are just a severed limb, just an arm or leg just hanging in the air.

There are babies. Animals. Insects. Houseplants ... Every form of life, standing in that never-ending line...

There’s tons of suicide victims. They’re blue from asphyxiation, nooses on them, dangling like a necklace, and there’s jumpers from bridges and buildings, and they’ve got hideously cracked bloody faces, faces deformed by impact, their limbs twisted and jelly-like.

Undoubtably, plenty of old people are there, in wheelchairs, hobbling on walkers, lying on a gurney, hooked up to beeping machines.

The people come from every time period, too, and are mixed together. You’ll see a Roman soldier, behind a Native American chief, next to an African tribesman, or an old Tibetan monk in front of a young, tattooed face Soundcloud rapper who overdosed on pills.

Death is truly egalitarian.

Everyone in the line looks confused. Or like they got backhanded, smacked in the face. Some have grossly shocked expressions, their eyes bulging, their jaws dangling open.

None speak. They just stand, separated by an equidistant 6 feet. When I arrived there, I was beamed to the front of the line. My form, my body dissolved into a puff, into a white cloud, and then I snapped to, and was standing at the front of the line.

An old man, in a toga, maybe a Greek, stood first in the line. He had horn-rimmed, solid gold eyeglasses hanging over his nose. He grabbed his crotch, and then I was sucked forward, almost vacuumed, into a cave, a hole, that looked like a black hole in outer space.

Inside, there was a narrow room. It had a low ceiling and dim rectangular fluorescent lights that blinked on and off, giving it a strobe light effect. The room was similar to a stock room. There were shoebox-sized, brown boxes piled to the ceiling, endless rows of them on each side of the white walls, the boxes stacked to the back, as far as the eye could see.

A black marble table sat in the center of the room. Behind it was an ivory chair. The ivory carved into meticulous patterns of curling snakes and dragons.

In the chair sat a mirror. Its edges were gilded in a shiny gold that had a phosphorescent aura to it. The mirror had to be approximately 3 feet tall and 1 foot wide.

The mirror spoke in a telepathic voice that sounded like my own thoughts. It told me it was God. It told me I wasn’t its son, but that it appreciated my doctrine. It told me it created Earth life, then man as an experiment. It had created other species, lifeforms on other planets, other galaxies. God said God was created by another God. That God created by another, and so on and so forth.