Running from the Screwtape Letters

Screwtape hates me, I can't think of another explanation for the way things go. The way the truth works. The way I can't see it clearly.

Wormwood is out there laughing at me, all tempted and tortorous twisted into the contorted spiritual positions of yoga and aetheism.

I've written to Clive and he just ignores my entreaties. It's easy to do, I suppose, when one is out there existing outside the timeline. Watching merrily as one party with the almighty.

I've read their letters. I know I'm the one they're talking about. I know it is my prayers which are wrong. I know it is my perception of The Holy that is so very untrue.

I know that the sneering at The Enemy is my doing. My hollowness. Me. Lacking.

Still, I am hopeful. Perhaps I can learn? I don't call him The Enemy.

But then again, I am food.

And Screwtape is hungry.