Worship

Alex entered Jack's small apartment. He'd been worried about his old friend and wanted to check on him. He wasn't there.

On the table near the window there was an ashtray filled with partially smoked cigarettes. A half-cup of coffee was next to it, a ring stained on the ceramic told him that it had been there for some time. But neither of these were what interested him.

Because on the table, laying open, was a journal. Jack often left notes for Alex and had done so now.

Alex sat down in the chair, picked up a half-smoke cigarette, lit it up and began to read.

I'm wondering what I'm doing anymore. As I write this the question comes once again - why am I still alive? What is my purpose?

I continue to aid others. Yet, the old phrase, "physician, heal thyself" is ever present. What has become of me and what am I to do when I am confronted with the emptiness that is me?

When a glass is half empty you can fill it with water. But what can fill a lingering emptiness such as mine? Thoughts, words or deeds?

All are insufficient. All of it is falling short.

I can only hope that my birth has a purpose. Perhaps someday my offspring will do something that will make an impact. Something that I can not.

Perhaps that is my only reason for being. The reason God chose to let a flat-line infant have a pulse once again. Perhaps that is why, though uncertain of any grand plan, i carry on.

Perhaps God was wrong about me. Anne was, and I worshiped her.

The note ended there. Alex finished the cigarette, exhaling the last of it as he spoke. "Oh, Jack. What am I going to do with you?"

He tore the note from the journal, crumpled it up. He stood, mentally exhausted, and walked out of the apartment, tossing the note into a dumpster as he passed by.

He would have to be more vigilant now. Jack was getting worse.