The Mortal Wound


I felt for a while that grief would undo death.

Did it?

No.

But I believed it might, if it were deep enough.

My cynic friend finally laughs at me.

Life is a fatal condition, my friend. Don’t you get that yet?

All the bandages in the world, all the disinfectants, all the healthy diets

can never heal that gash we’ve had since the first moments,

Three Fates. One
fate, with three faces.


‘We strut and fret our hour on the stage
and then are heard no more’
Everything has a time limit here.

Such a gloomy cynic! You take away all hope.

Not at all. You don’t have to turn this into something.
You don’t need to get upset.
Think of yourself as dead already,
that you’ve lived your life.
Now you’re free to take what time is left and
live it as it should be lived.
It just takes being indifferent to what makes no difference.
And most of what we say and do is not essential.

I’m afraid. 

Listen. Just do this. 
Go out into the desert just once. 
Lie down and look up at the stars,
A blackness filled with light so thick it seems alive

Let it bewilder you, and overtake you. 
As you shiver, though, it is not the cool air, 
but an angel that lies down beside you, 
and you’ll know that something
beyond imagining awaits. 

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