Since I am a writer, I know the dreams which blur the line separating sanity from the insane-- and, how easily one can get lost along the way. The sad man's essay reached me on this November morning. "One can't stop what's coming," so the smart ones among us say. What is coming is what we have chosen. If the path we have taken led us to this place-- at this moment-- was it the proper path? We have today. Tomorrow is unknown. The past is indelible. Today is what we have. In that abattoir conceals what is necessary to go on.
I once befriended a chap from Mumbai, who denounced, with vigor, the existence of the Hebrew God and His son who landed at Glastonbury on an uncommonly cold June morning during the 'so-called' lost years. The chap from Mumbai, battling the the most angry of the cancers--she who invades the pancreas- grabbed my hand with terror as he described the dreams of what lay beyond what we called life. He cried out, from places not covered by pain, for some Deity to save him from what was coming. It confirmed that death masks cover the face of no agnostics and the deathbed is home to no atheist. As I say, "It's funny how life goes." Indeed. Night dreams are not always dispensers of truth...so I have learned in the half-century sojourn.
I remember when I could not sleep, except for the cheap Shiraz purchased at a convenience store run by a oddly dark-skinned man from Karachi and a white girl from Sweetwater-- an unlikely combination, but who am I to say. They sold it inexpensively and I arrived like clockwork to buy it. I wonder if Christ turned the water into Shiraz or something else. It's on my list of things to ask Him on that day when I give account for my failures of which there have been many.
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