A Tragic Heart

By Nathan Payne | pablosmoglives | 27 Nov 2023

“All the days of the afflicted are evil: but he that
is of a merry heart hath a continual feast.”
Proverbs 15:15

I considered making this the most honest piece of writing I have ever written, but that would be impossible. There's no way to tell the truth like that without filling a teddy bear with explosives and jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge like a fireworks show from hell, while yelling something comical. "Santa Claus is coming to town," perhaps. Famous last words.

Don't do it, by the way. I'm not going to. Woulda done it by now. Decades ago. Even then, it was with visceral, holy terror that I hesitated to send myself to hell to suffer an eternity of unbearable torment, so as to put an end to my earthly struggles. I wrote two or three hundred songs about it, instead. That's what I would do, if I were you. If you're not a writer, take your tragic heart out on whatever skill set you've been blessed with. Don't hurt anybody. Not even yourself. If you want to hurt yourself, smoke some weed instead. Pray to the Bible God while you're doing it, use the name of Jesus like a life preserver and throw your arms up on the harrowing roller-coaster drop of life, indifferent to whether you live or die, but don't jump off the ride, don't hurt the other passengers, and if you have to do it stoned, do it stoned. It's alright.

In my opinion, it's what the plant was created for.

Weed saved my life a million times, but I didn't quit it because my tragic heart has been cured. I didn't quit drinking 9+ years ago because my tragic heart was cured. I didn't move to Mexico to "live life to its fullest," or whatever the sedated, smiling ciphers in the graveyard section of the universe do in lieu of copping to the reality of their situation. Perhaps, I quit those things and moved away from the culture of dismissive, glib abusers so that I could finally heal for real at last. God told me to do it, so I did. But I really haven't healed. It scares me. Am I truly messed up, or just holding onto unforgiveness as an act of willful malice? What is the difference in unforgiveness and pain? Is there a difference between holding a grudge, and drowning in the pain of rejection, betrayal, and abuse?

I'm not talking about "love." That whole world is a drug. A luxury cruise on the lake of fire. Because I never let God steer me through those waters, love was basically a drug for me, though I didn't know it at the time. Like a cokehead may believe themselves to be "happy" or "powerful," I believed I was "in love." As a result, like someone who has recovered from a blissful hangover, I don't believe in love at all. I'm not saying it's a good thing. But never let anybody shame you for being "MGTOW." Neil Diamond wrote that song in the 60s. The problem isn't new.

The reason I am writing this article is to encourage the ONE lone, abandoned wolf who is wandering lost through the idiot fields of the world, who may or may not be subscribed to this blog at the moment, and who may or may not read this article until later (if ever), to know that he or she is not alone. I wrote the article "The Little Match Seller" about it, last Christmas. I revisited it today for the first time since I wrote it, and found that I really needed to hear it again, myself.

I use "Ghost Song" a lot, perhaps because it resonates in the empty, hollow sepulchre in my heart. Hahahaha, dramatic, right? You have no idea. You can actually dismiss tragedy as "dramatic." That's how rich you are.

Get on your knees and thank God for that capacity. It's a blessing of immeasurable value.

Don't take it for granted.

I am deeply, fundamentally concerned about my salvation. I have always been an emotionally-incontinent wreck, unqualified for active duty in the Army of Life. It scares me. My own songs sometimes scare me. "I will rest in peace 'til I die" is among the most horrifying things I have ever written, or could ever imagine to write. There are 2 ways to write that kind of line:

From a place of wallowing and revelry,

Or from a place of abject horror.

Most people think it's the former, especially other Christians. Which is an exceedingly, joylessly alienating feeling. It does make me wonder if I'm even a real Christian. I know Jesus is God, I know He lived a sinless life and that His blood gives salvation to anyone who receives it, and that He made religion obsolete 2,000 years ago,

And I know I'm an American, and a straight white guy,

And I'm not ashamed of any of those things, but....

Why am I more comfortable surrounded by people with whom I share ZERO cultural or familial ties? Not comfortable, mind you, just more comfortable. Less uncomfortable, perhaps. Why do I balk at the idea of writing false gospel content; is it a good thing that I can't write any infernal "nightmare content" anymore either?

It was never "content," though. Everything I wrote was true. Is it okay if I just tell the truth? Isn't that what music's for? Like painting, arithmetic, and car repair?

Just tell the truth. Don't try to upsell me on an expensive repair I don't need, or a legalistic doctrine that will rob me blind before sending me to hell. Just tell me the truth. Cuz I'm going to tell the truth.

Is that alright with you?

Everything in that song happened in real life. It isn't gospel, but there's no way I couldn't NOT thank Jesus at the end of it. Nevermind the whole "rejection of Satan and running into the arms of Jesus" chorus part. I know you hate "secular music," or worse, love it. Which is perhaps why "Tomorrow To The Day" is the last song I've written in English to date.

Is that alright with you?

I walked into the office. The counselor has earned my trust, but still it's hard to believe Him. Not because He's untrustworthy, but because trust itself is deadly. The world has often laughed. It's all so easy for them. I am chained in the belltower of the normal world. By choice, because it's better than being laughed at by smug, dismissive stuffed animals. I chained myself in the dungeon tower with drugs, with alcohol, with reckless indifference toward the consequences of my unthought-out actions. I even chained myself there with "love." If this guy laughs at me, I will never believe in anything again.

"What's that?"

"It's your file. I'm sending it back to the judge for evaluation."

"You're not going to fail me, are you?"

There is such a thing as narcissistic abuse. There is such a thing as legitimately being "damaged goods." There is a such thing as being crippled and incapacitated by the thoughtless or malicious abuse of other people. People higher on the social food chain than you. It's okay if you have difficulty healing from it.

God help us all, it had better be.

Thank you Jesus. I don't know the difference in unforgiveness and pain. I believe it's pain, I really do. God help me if I'm wrong. If I'm wrong,

I want to know. I know my file is bad. There's no way to sugarcoat a plate of burning vomit. It is what it is. I don't blame them. I know it was the devils. Please forgive the people for what they did. They need Your mercy too. I'm not more deserving of any measure of grace or forgiveness than anybody else. This world is a nightmare. Paradoxically, perhaps, I have been blessed with the incapacity to believe in it. Better to enter into life maimed, I suppose. Can we enter into life now? Your call. I wrote that song almost 25 years ago. It isn't gospel, but it is part of my file.

You're not going to fail me, are you?