Would it be better to have a terminal disease,

wasting the body

asking for God’s mercy? Grace to carry on.

Knowing the end was coming soon.

To come to an end in peace. An embrace of cold death into warm life.

Than to have a mental defect, torture of the mind

never seeing the feasible end. Always lost in darkness

blind, unknowing.

Stomach in knots. Mind in turmoil.

Someone who wants to live, wants to live no matter the struggle.

One who wants to die only talks like this.

A ghost lost among the shades.

Walking through the shadow of the valley of death. Carrying on, only a vapor

self lost, body only a memory. Distant, elusive.

Fear the affection keeping one motivated. Wasting away, paper thin,

see through.

Shades are not lost to the sight of God. But the wraith,

ghost of the self feels that the gaze of God has abandoned him. Hope gone.

Only fear and despair push him down to float just above the surface of the ground.

Green grass, fields of undulating wheat distant in the memory. Parched in the desert

water drips in some distant sound. But cannot be found.

The one who has put all hope in another person; lost in the desert. A dead idol cannot save, but only sit silently tormenting its worshipper.

The intellect dulled. Perceiving nothing clearly. Seen through mist and darkness.

Whether the mind or the body is terminal, give one courage to see aright. To ask for the light in sheer darkness.



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