Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven..." Something has
happened. For considerable intervals—I cant specify how long since Time has
ceased its day-to-night procession of one-to-countless stars—the pain stops.
Sometimes between prayers, so it may not be so crucial to mutter, utter, or SCREECH
my imperfect repertoire. What appears to be important is my relationship with Whomever
might be listening. I say 'Whomever' rather than whatever because The Presence
I intuit exudes some sort of Ken.
Is this delirium? There is every possibility that untold days, weeks,
months of unremitting torture might warp a person's judgment, a person's very sanity,
but as far as I can tell Im lucid during these periods. In fact, I believe Ive
kept my wits throughout; not once have I swooned, or fainted, or even fallen asleep. Why? The
better to rub my self-inflicted wounds with salt? That's one explanation. But it
smacks of vindictiveness; whereas the aura surrounding 'Whomever' is definitely benign.
Which reminds me of something said by a dear friend battling AIDS when
I asked him if taking his own life were something he would consider. Pain is a great
seasoner of the soul; I wouldnt want to turn up at Heaven's Gate insufficiently
spiced. G.G's droll sense of humor aside, his point was well taken.
Destruction of self may preempt communion with God.
I always assumed that aging taught us lessons about how
to bow out gracefully. Each infirmity—from ever-weakening eyesight to
arthritic knees—rehearsed us, as it were, for Life's Denouement. Was it
wrong of me to wrest, from Death, its authority? Did I overstep the bounds
of self-determination? Is taking one's life an act of concession or of
... give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our
trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us...
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