I have a brother. His name is Peter and I like him very much. I’m currently visiting him in Melbourne. I met his son. I like Peter as a person, as a Dad, as a husband, as a communicator, as a son, as a brother, as a mentor as many things. There have been moments in my life where I haven’t liked him. He used to use me as a practice wrestling doll. That wasn’t so fun. But all the other times I can’t remember, because on the whole, Peter has been an amazing brother to me.
Now lets imagine that Peter and I or you and I were the first brothers on the planet. That we hadn’t seen our father and his brother interacting, or our mother and her brothers interacting. Or any of our friends and their brothers. Or even each other being brothers to our sisters. Lets say we were ignorant to the role of brother. And lets also imagine that we were the second and third men on the entire planet. All we knew was Mum, Dad, and we. And our whole story was “God created Dad out of the dust, God created Mum out of Dad, and Mum and Dad somehow made us. And we used to be naked. And they used to be in a sweet garden, but we got kicked out and now we live in this dump” #motiontothedumpyoulivein
And at this stage your Dads revelation of God-who-kicked-you-out-of-the-garden was a pretty hazy one. He had stopped talking to them. And you… you’re not so convinced that God exists. But because there are no other people, and your Dad literally has no other stories, except that one time he ate that one tasty pink tree….. your brother at least believes your parents. He slowly becomes their favourite, and you quickly become jealous of their love of him and their awkwardness around you. So you get a little weirder, and your brother and your weird sisters get closer, and then out of no where you hear this big voice coming from the clouds, telling you that you have done wrong, and telling you to leave the only family in the area to go out by yourself. And all you did was kill your brother cause he was being weird. He was the one stealing. He was the one mistreating your sisters. He was the one telling your parents lies about you. And he deserved to die.
Except… your concept of justice. Your concept of life itself. Even… where did you get your sense of revenge? Who gave you these ideas? Where did they come from? And now I’m dead. Your only friend in the world. Except your potatoes. But they weren’t really friends, even tho you gave them names and made up voices for them. But still. You had no imagination so… they were pretty boring. At least i was fun to run around with. But now I’m dead.