Dear Marcus,
The stress is
unbearable sometimes. My arms feel like blocks of stone, I cannot
lift my boulder hands from the bed, my legs, my head, all of me feels
like crumbling granite. I struggle to breathe, like some leaden
creature sits atop my chest choking me.
There is nothing
worse than uncertainty.
Doom, I can
handle,
but the
uncertainty of an eclipse is unbearable.
For weeks the sun
has shone upon me with its love, then in the blink of sleep, the
light and warmth are replaced with an empty smile, a face always
turning away, eyes that do not want to look, a voice that does not
want to speak to me.
And every real
expression becomes pretended.
What can I do
Marcus? The past will never let go. Vulnerant omens, ultima
necant. (Every hour wounds, the last one kills). What can I do
with my echoing words that, once said, can never be taken back ?
Forgiveness? Impossible. Forgetting? Impossible. What remains is
the lingering feeling that I cannot tell right from wrong, I feel
lost. I question my value as a human being, and find comfort in the
fading bruises and persistent pain in my head each morning. Fighting
with myself is a loosing battle.
*
From: Meditations
Book 10, Section
3
(Hays
Translation)
Every thing
that happens is either endurable or not.
If it’s
endurable, then endure it. Stop complaining.
If it’s
unendurable . . . then stop complaining.
Your
destruction will mean its end as well.
Just remember:
you can endure anything your mind can
make
endurable, by treating it as in your interest to do so.
In your
interest, or in your nature.
*
My
destruction will mean its end as well huh? I really want this to be
the advice that I need, but I do not have the luxury of self
destruction, Marcus.
I
have a life to live and a family to raise. I cannot endure in
silence while the sun goes cold. At least I have you to write to,
even if sometimes your advice is not so good. My stomach hurts.
*
From:
Meditations.
Book
8, Section 47
“If thou art
pained by any external thing, it is not this thing that disturbs
thee, but thy own judgement about it. And it is in thy power to wipe
out this judgement now. But if anything in thy disposition gives
thee pain, who hinders thee from correcting thy opinion?”
It
would be lovely if willpower alone could free a person from the
bondage of their own mind, but the mind is not the only thing that
remembers. The Body, the damn body stores everything, forgets
nothing. Such discordant music the bones of my past mistakes
compose, clattering as a broken xylophone in the sack of my living
flesh. My disposition would free itself if it knew anything of
freedom.
Who
is it that hinders me from correcting my opinion?
It
is easier for me to believe in demons and curses and the terrors of a
personal eclipse, than it is for me to wipe away the judgement of a
sun who refuses to shine on me.
So
much is out of my hands, Marcus. I feel powerless.
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