The worms in my grave have proven themselves quite resourceful. If you're reading this, dear reader, it means they fulfilled their promise to transmit this message from the underworld to my blog. (It turns out that in addition to feasting on my remains, worms have become remarkably savvy with technology.)
Let me explain how I ended up here. A few months ago, I answered a spiritual calling that echoed from the depths of my soul: to hike up the sacred Mountain X (not to be confused with the site formerly known as Twitter). It all began with a voice—an odd, insistent whisper that crept into my mind and grew louder with each passing day. It was like a nuclear detector in a movie, beeping urgently as it led me closer to its source. Eventually, I realized the voice was summoning me from the mountain itself. So, I followed it.
As I neared the mountain, the landscape shifted into something surreal. The closer I got, the more people appeared, until there were more than two million souls swarming around the base like ants around a dropped brown sugar cube (brown sugar because it is the mountain, not because it's the Kaabe). The voice was deafening by then, we could not ignore it. What was the voice saying, you ask. We were all summoned to embark on a journey that would cleanse us of our sins and grant us a rebirth. Cleansed from what? I had no idea. My life, as I saw it, was a patchwork of mundane choices and small transgressions, hardly deserving of a grand reckoning.
While I was still grappling with the enormity of this holy journey, an angel appeared—dressed as an angry soldier. He barked at me, “What’s your name?” Still dazed, I replied, “Mona.” With his weird stern finger, he pointed toward a group of people and yelled, “Go join that group of Monas over there and wait until you form a group of twelve to start the hike.” And so, with little choice, I joined the gathering of Monas. What I found there was beyond belief.
The first Mona I encountered was a woman who resembled a pineapple—literally. Her body was as spiky and unruly as the fruit, and she scratched at anyone who came too close. She seethed with an inexplicable anger, lashing out at everyone around her. Her sin, I thought, was her uncontrollable rage—angry at the world for reasons even she didn’t understand. Nonetheless, she triggered a flood of memories of Pineapple Street in Brooklyn, where I once lived. I approached her with cautious friendliness, and said, “Oh, what a coincidence! I used to live on a street called Pineapple.” But she didn’t understand a word I said. I don’t think she spoke English. Realizing we couldn’t take her on the hike in such a state and with that attitude, I soaked a towel in cold water and wrapped it around her. She calmed down immediately, and I hoisted her onto my shoulder. She was heavier than I anticipated.
The second Mona in our peculiar group was a one-legged man, hopping relentlessly on his single leg. He had neither a cane nor a wheelchair and stubbornly refused any assistance. His slow pace frustrated the rest of us, and I couldn’t help but think, This is his sin—he’s always slowing people down, wasting their time, refusing help even when he needs it most.
Next was a boy with skin as delicate and thin as paper, his body covered in shifting drawings and notes that revealed the deepest secrets of those nearby. He was sweet, with a soft-spoken innocence, but his presence made us all uneasy. We avoided looking at him directly, terrified of what secrets he might uncover. His sin, I realized, was the cruel honesty he wielded. Why was he exposing truths that were better left buried.
The only attractive Mona in the group (besides myself, of course) was a man in a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit—a sight so incongruous with the rugged mountain setting. Under normal circumstances, he would have been a 10/10, with his tall frame, chiseled features, and piercing blue eyes. I could easily imagine us dining at a chic restaurant in New York City, discussing art or politics over fine wine. But here, on this grueling hike, his rating dropped to a three. What a vanity—clinging to appearances even when they served no purpose, even when they hindered him.
After me, a pair of conjoined twins joined the group, fused at the hips and sharing a single eye between them. They were so ugly and unsettling to look at, so much so that I had to avert my gaze. Their sin... I paused, uncertain. Was it envy, resentment, or something else entirely? They were forced to share one life, one vision—maybe their sin was not even theirs, but the universe’s for binding them together in this way.
Then came a couple, each carrying one end of a snake, which they claimed was their son, transformed as punishment for his disobedience. Their sin, I thought, was their failure as parents—they hadn’t raised him well, and now they were condemned to care for a snake instead of a child. The son’s sin was clear; his defiance had been met with an immediate and severe punishment. God had turned him into a snake, God clearly does not tolerate disobedience.
Following them was a headless man, whose severed head was dutifully carried by his son, trailing behind like an afterthought. The headless man’s sin was perhaps the most tragic—he had lost himself completely, leaving the burden of his identity to be carried by his child.
We were eleven Monas now, but still one short of the required twelve. My restlessness grew. We needed to start this journey, to reach the elusive redemption promised by the mountain. In desperation, I snatched a stray cat from the side of the road, named it Mona, and thus our bizarre troupe was complete: me with the pineapple woman on one shoulder and the cat on the other; the one-eyed twin sisters; the one-legged man; the paper-skinned boy; the Tom Ford man; the snake-child and his parents; and the headless father with his devoted son. Finally, all the Monas were ready.
The soldier watching us had calmed down. He was no longer as angry. When it was time for us to leave, his demeanor changed drastically. He became overly emotional and happy. He waved goodbye so enthusiastically that his fingers started flying off like fireworks, scattering around us (I told you he had weird fingers). He kept blowing us air kisses as we began our journey.
But as we said goodbye to the soldier and began our ascent, I realized that scrutinizing the sins of my fellow Monas was getting me nowhere. Their burdens were theirs to carry, just as mine were mine. It was time to stop being judgmental and turn my focus inward, where it belonged.
What sins, I wondered, had led me to this pilgrimage? I had committed so few, or at least I believed so. I had always arranged the business of my soul directly with God, confident we were on good terms. So what brought me here? I remembered locking my teacher in the kitchen when I was a child, but that was hardly a sin. She had food; I didn’t murder her. I made fun of people in my head, but who didn’t? It was how I kept myself entertained. Perhaps I had been mean to my parents, but they had been just as harsh to me. I wasn’t the most generous tipper. People hated when I didn’t text back, but could that really be why I was here? Was I being punished for not texting back? It seemed absurd, yet the thought gnawed at me. No, I’m perfect and pure. I can’t possibly have committed any sins. I need to focus on my breath.
The hike was long and exhausting. I grew so bored that I nearly fell in love with the hideous Tom Ford man. The heat was oppressive, and we were severely dehydrated. As we ascended the mountain, we slowly began to turn transparent—not thinner or smaller, but see-through.
From the top of the mountain, I looked down and saw not just the two million people who had gathered for this spiritual hell-ish journey, but all the people from all ages of time, stretching out in an unending procession. What I beheld was the living condensation of all time. The ages swept by like a whirlwind, and in my delirious, dehydrated state, everything became painfully clear.
I saw how humanity had arrived here empty, naked, and unarmed, and how we had quickly filled the world with our creations. We invented electricity and sorrows, discovered oil and love. We manufactured chairs and children, built skyscrapers and mud-houses, and even circled the globe. We circled the globe, dug to the bowels of the earth, and visited other planets.
But in our endless pursuit of progress, we perhaps created more than we needed—more supply, more demand, more glory, and more misery. I saw how love intensified suffering and how misery worsened weakness. Greed consumed everything, anger drove people mad, and envy dripped with malice. The relentless toil of labor, the suffocating weight of boredom, the ambition, hunger, vanity, melancholy, wealth, sex, food, and love—all twisted humanity into a tempest until it shattered like glass.
I saw swift and turbulent ages passing by, generations overtaking generations. No matter what had come before, each generation claimed to be superior. Each age bore its portion of shadow and light, of apathy and combat, of truth and error, parading systems, new ideas, and new illusions. Each new era was agile, cunning, vibrant, and self-assured, a bit scattered, bold, and learned, but in the end, as miserable as the first. And so it passed like all the rest, with the same swiftness and monotony. They all arrived punctually at the grave.
As the ages marched on, I knew our turn was next. I paused and glanced at our group. We had all become fully transparent. I, along with my fellow Monas—and our cat—joined the performance of time, stepping into the riddle of eternity. It’s such a pity we have to die.
