God Is Dead

Where have I gone wrong? I thought to myself. I had the idea that I would run this city. The great Eric Humble, making his mark in the bustling and modern Seattle!

“Shit!” I exclaimed to no one. The house was dead. Only one light was brave enough to shine against cold walls. The doors are closed. They vibrated to the shouting. “All shit!”

The bills piled on the messy bed drooped and creased like they had cried not moments before. Guess the facade is over, yeah? I thought. My recent failures kept piling on the weight. I had to face reality. Eric Humble didn’t make his mark. I didn’t make my mark. Seattle marked me. --Marked me for dead. “And die I am going to do!” I hollered to nobody.

The plan was simple. Tomorrow I grab the heaviest things I still owned, two 45-pound weights and some rope, and walk to the lake nearby. I closed my eyes. For the longest time, I fought the sleep until it too marked me for dead. I shivered through it.

What must have been sometime later, I felt a weight on my bed wake me. This fleeting feeling of calm washed me. --Cleansed me. It was a feeling I had not felt in a long, long time. When I opened my eyes, I saw a figure that matched the weight.

“Oh, so you’ve opened those sad eyes at last, hmm?” He said. The tone of his voice seemed like he had already measured my character, but I didn’t feel threatened. The transparent man wasn’t looking at me, yet I saw a well-defined mustache that must have taken years to maintain. Simple glasses protruded from his face. He looked dressed to impress. Coifed hair to boot. I sat up.

“Who are you?” I asked the ghostly being.

“It doesn’t matter.” He wryly stated.

“Why not?” I ask. The ghost turned to look at me for the first time. His eyes were the rare kind, the ones that could pierce into your soul. He searched me with those eyes before answering: “I...my name is Friedrich Nietzsche.” His head bobbed slightly. Friedrich seemed unsure of himself.

“German?” I replied.

“Yes.”

“Well, my name is --” Friedrich interrupted my introduction:

“You are a dead man, sir.” He said.

I scoffed, but Friedrich didn’t look unsure of himself this time.

“I’m no more dead than you are!” I retorted, raising my hand out to gesture towards my guest’s visage. The ghost raised his eyebrows and made an effort to observe his arms. He patted his legs, testing his own physicality.

“Treat it as a matter of perspective. To you, I am dead. But despite my body being dead over a century ago, I find myself alive.” He replied.

Deep in thought, I wondered if I should confess to Mr. Nietzsche. Before I could muster up the courage, he got up and walked towards the brave light. -- A lamp adorned in brass, with intricate design. It was something that belonged to the past. Yet, the ghost was very interested.

“How did humanity harness the power of the sun?” He looked directly at me, full of curiosity.

I was flabbergasted. Stumbling for an answer, perhaps to seem smart, I answered: “Well, scientists found a way... I think it has something to do with the filament inside the light bulb.”

“Light...bulb. Ha! Hahaha!” The man seemed overjoyed, almost hysterical. I got up and showed him how to operate the lamp.

“You see?” I flicked the switch at the base. The cold walls looked warmer as we laughed and toyed with the century-old invention.

“Purely amazing,” Friedrich said at last. However, his mood sobered. “But this light is not the reason I am here, Eric.”

I was taken aback, but not surprised this ghost knew my name. “So you do know me, Mr. Nietzsche?”

“Yes.” He said as a matter of fact. “You are a dead man.” His eyes pierced me again. And I sat back down on the bed. Tears welled up inside of me. I cried out.

“I am a failure!” I yelled at him. I unconsciously sucked in the air before continuing: “I’ve lost my money, I’ve lost my friends and I’ve got nowhere left to go but the lake!” Friedrich was silent as I told him about my hopes in Seattle. How life seemed to be kicking me to the curb. How I was going to kill myself. --And I got angry.

“So who are you supposed to be? Huh? An angel of God who’s supposed to tell me that life is not over yet? Well, I don’t need his guidance!”

Friedrich laughed at that.

“Ha! Hahaha! I imagine to you it must look that way, yes?” He replied. “No. Again, it’s a matter of perspective.”

“What do you mean it’s a matter of perspective!?” I exclaimed. The ghost’s eyes had a spark of sadness:

“Well, to me, God is alive.” Then, Friedrich pointed at me with an extended arm.

“To you, God is dead.”

I was confused. Was this why I had failed? Was God’s death the reason for my personal torture and tribulation?

Friedrich continued: “Can I tell you something?” He didn’t let me answer before going on: “In life, I was a philosopher. I have this concept. Übermensch. Err, how do you say in English? -- The over-man. The over-man is better than man. Just like how man is better than the ape. You see, I was --we are -- a bridge! Towards something better than what we are now!” Friedrich was excited. He seemed to be more inside his head than anything. He noticed his excitation, and cleared his throat: “So what do you think about that, Mr. Humble?”

I replied: “Well, that sounds like evolution.” Or perhaps the next form of life after humanity. Like artificial intelligence?” Friedrich looked at me as if he had seen himself for the first time.

I got up sheepishly. “Or something like that. What’s your point?” I asked. I open the door and go to the kitchen. Friedrich followed, where he remarked at the dirty dishes. Ignoring him, I made some tea. Friedrich continued:

“Anyway, my point is, Eric, that you are a worm.” I looked at him. Now Friedrich did insult me. He unapologetically continued: “You keep saying, young man, that your failures proceed you to die. --To die like the worm that you are, no longer fighting back to reclaim your values.” Friedrich moved towards the sink. “Please understand. I think that if you are so focused on dying, then it’s your right to choose death. No one is coming to save you, my friend.” Friedrich reached for the switch to the garbage disposal and shrieked when he flicked it.

I watched him floundering about to turn off the device gargling and gnashing underneath the sink. After he finally mustered the courage to turn it off, he asked: “Where was I?”

“I am a worm,” I replied dryly.

“Yes! A worm!” Friedrich and his mustache smiled: “This sort of relates to another philosophy of mine. Eric, what is more important to you? Willpower, or values?”

Before I had the chance to answer, he interrupted: “It’s will, of course! The power of will is more vast than values. How could you succeed in anything you value if you don’t have the will to do what is necessary?” This statement did pique my interest.

“Friedrich, wait. You are saying that values do not matter?”

“Yes!” He exclaimed. His eyes were practically screaming crazy. I silently poured my tea while he waited.

“But that’s immoral,” I replied eventually. Friedrich’s eyebrows scrunched.

“Bah! Fuck morality. It’s useless jargon invented by successful people to lead the sheep. Do you want to be great? You want to succeed and go beyond the rest? Live without morals, and you could do anything.”

With this mind-blowing assertion, I wanted to test Friedrich.

“So, I should kill people?”

“Dictators have done it, countless times.” He replied.

“What about rape? Or slavery, or doing evil?”

Friedrich laughed: “Let’s just say that there is more to morality than good and evil, Eric.”

I debated with him, on and on about morality. While doing so, I finished my tea and occupied myself by doing my dirty dishes. Friedrich helped me. --If not to learn how the dishwasher worked.

At the end of the conversation, the sun spilled into the room from half-closed blinders.

I wondered about this ghost. No, I was dazzled by him. --The dead philosopher with old truths and dated knowledge. “Who are you?” I asked him again.

Friedrich’s eyes dug themselves into me once more. After he was done searching, he replied: “It doesn’t matter. And you?”

“I am --” Nietzsche interrupted me again.

“You are not dead.” He smiled with his mustache and faded away with the light.

“Yet.”

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Friedrich Nietzsche

No one can construct for you the bridge upon which precisely you must cross the stream of life, no one but you yourself alone.