Once you lose a child, you never again live happily in this world. But you can learn how to embrace the opposites and produce a body of work that points beyond this world. That is my only reason to write. To let the muse inform me of my place in the scheme of things.
We are all the same, longing for redemption and grace. When you see that the gate to the absolute extinguishment of sorrow exists, you make your bed outside it and wait. And that it is worth the wait, you have no doubt.
Sorrow lives in this world so easily. We are fragile clingers to the Word. What will it take to make us realize that the Word is fraught with love and danger at all times. Life and death intermingle so totally that none of us can afford to play favorites.
Jesus and Christ are the same. So are we. No one can claim to have transcended either of the opposites without transcending the other. Making sense does not apply to the teachings of love.
I can write on until this body drops away and I will not have said a word that makes sense. If it made sense, I would not want to write. Death makes no sense. Life makes no sense.
The crucifixion of logic leads to the resurrection of the heart. I make my bed in sorrow. It offers me no consolation until I see that the pillow is soft and sleep will refresh me like eternal day never can.