I greatly pity those who had no say in their dying…those for whom the body, over the mind, suddenly annulled life for them.
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Thanatophobia is not a ubiquitous phenomenon. It is kindled in quietude…in tranquility. A cruel bomb in the midst of a midnight silence—the assault of the question mark. In birth and in death, one finds the equivalence of nothingness. One quickly forgets, though, that what has been graciously given is greedily taken…and what a great insult this is! A slap—no—a spit in the face of mankind! Oh, how I envy the ignorant—insects and imbeciles alike.
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Return me to the ether, to potentiality…
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The one thing preventing my alcoholism is taste.
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It is quite natural to feel an insurmountable urge to lunge into traffic—an invisible pull from the divine.
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I loathe knowing that, were I a first-century Galilean, I would have found Yeshua exorbitantly insufferable.
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When I open the Scriptures, a veneer of ecstasy envelops me…once shut—nothing.
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There is no decision more laborious than Kant or the noose.
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“Fire and cross and battles with wild beasts, mutilation, mangling, wrenching of bones, the hacking of limbs, the crushing of my whole body, cruel tortures of the devil—let these come upon me, only let me reach Jesus Christ!”1 Ignatius metamorphosed martyrdom into masochism.
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The loneliest born was the first to brood. To this thought, I shudder. To all those that came before, I resent.
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Those unburdened by consciousness are the final heirs of the mystic tradition.
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Perspicacious was Marx in writing, religion “is the opium of the people.”2 Though I would revise his maxim: Christ is an anxiolytic.
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How vehemently I curse the State…and how timidly I file my taxes.
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My revolt against authority would crumble at the first sign of opposition.
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The ethic of the medieval church was humanity’s greatest crusade toward extinction.
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I feel camaraderie among the loxosceles—the recluse. For webs made for solitude over sustenance…
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I am convinced the hysterics of others are funnelled toward me. Vainglory or diffidence?
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Phantasmagoric raving—yesteryear’s oracles.
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Orthodoxy is the least of all the heresies.
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It is often said that if Christ were to live today, his outcome would be no different than two millennia prior. How naive to overlook the inertia of contemporary man. The blood of the ancients boiled; ours remains tepid. A fate worse than the cross.
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I long for the vitality a bridge jumper finds in the midst of their fall.
Endnotes
1. Michael W. Holmes, trans., The Apostolic Fathers in English. 3rd ed. (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2006), 114.
2. Robert C. Tucker, The Marx-Engels Reader. 2nd ed. (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1978), 54.
Bibliography
Holmes, Michael W., trans. The Apostolic Fathers in English. 3rd ed. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2006.
Tucker, Robert C., The Marx-Engels Reader. 2nd ed. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1978.