She surprises me every time she shows her face, and yet she has always been with me. Now that I am in exile, I know that she is closer, though perhaps she has always been this close. It may be that the only thing that is different now is that I have become more aware of her shadow.
She is with everyone and with every living thing. There is nothing special about me; she regards us all, and sooner or later she will reveal herself to each of us.
I believe that she is no grim reaper, no collector of souls. I believe that she has no interest in souls or heaven or hell. Her instinct is to put an end to pain, an end to fright and suffering. Vengeance is not her passion. Instinct guides her. She is not the destroyer. She is the mother of beauty.
I did not know when she would come to me, only that she would come.
It will be no random time. She is not capricious. She is not predictable. I feel her shadow, and her presence makes life dear.
Her reason often cannot be explained. Why does she come for some at night in a forgotten dream? What moves her when there is no pain, no fright and no suffering? I can only imagine that her vision is so much larger than my own. She sees the hurt, the fear and the anguish before it touches our meager senses.
I was aware that my life was growing shorter.
There is an immutable finiteness of life that no protest and no conquest can alter. I do not fear her. I fear more the torment that only she can calm.
Some other stuff for later,
- 80I wondered sometimes whether I would lead my life any differently if I knew how old I was. It was a question not unique to exile, but in the time of exile, age was defined by death. At a younger age death had been more abstract than it now seemed.…
- 66For the rest of my days, I would carry with me the knowledge of regrets and failings that I dared not speak of. It was a silent burden that I struggled to articulate even to myself or mostly avoided. I believed that it was not about perfection. Though I had…
- 63There have been moments in exile when it seems there is nothing that propels me forward. More than moments, really, for the thought is not merely momentary. If not moments, then perhaps I could call them passages of time when there is an absence of things needing to be done,…
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