here comes the real weepy and right tragic part of the story beginning, oh my brothers and only friends....
first of all: i am tired. i am true of heart. and also: you are tired. you are true of heart.
kill myself?
thanks.. but no thanks.
let's not rush anything here.
i feel like religion is stagnating these days. we're bombarded by mtv, no-carb/low-carb diets, and celebrity magazines on one side, and the church preaching abstinence and high moral fiber on the other. how can religion compete? what you need is a way to put everything together. you need a unified field theory that combines glamour and holiness, fashion and spirituality. you need to reconcile being good, and being good-looking.
people can't conceive of a virtue in someone else that they can't conceive in themselves. instead of believing you're stronger, it's so much easier to imagine you're weaker. you're addicted to self-abuse. you're a liar. people are always ready to believe the opposite of what you tell them.
she sat there just like the others at the table.
but on second glance, she seemed to hold her cup
a little differently as she picked it up.
she smiled once. It was almost painful.
and when they finished and it was time to stand
and slowly, as chance selected them, they left
and moved through many rooms (they talked and laughed),
i saw her. she was moving far behind
she followed slowly taking a length of time,
as though there were some obstacle in the way;
and yet: as though, once it was overcome,
she would be beyond all walking and would fly.
i would gladly explain the feeling of happiness which, like now, i have within me from time to time. it is really something effervescent that fills me completely with a light, pleasant quiver and that persuades me of the existence of abilities of whose non-existence i can convince myself with complete certainty at any moment, even now.
each night we died and were reborn. life re-affirmed.
nothing was solved, but nothing mattered.
i knew how serious my situation was. i was wasted, weak, hallucinating on the morphine every day, very far out in the cold - just a degree or two away from the physical final end, to say nothing of madness, spiritual bankruptcy, and financial ruin.
i also knew that i was so close to death that if i really wanted, i could give up and go there quite easily. all the way down at the doors of death, though, i'd discovered that i didn't really want to die; i just wanted the pain and trouble and heartbreak to end, and i was so tired that dying seemed like the only way to get that done.
i wanted to stop hating myself, too. mine wasn't soft-core, pop-psychology self-hatred; it was a profound, violent, daily holocaust of revulsion and shame, and one way or another it had to stop. i couldn't stand it any longer. so when the intervention came, it was welcome.
he who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.
