Body Deteriorating

“to die is gain; for eternity is then only a single night.”
~~ Socrates, his Apology.

Body seems to keep deteriorating. Chest sometimes gets so tight that breathing would become an ordeal. Don't know if one can be like Socrates, accepting the coming death happily and peacefully. Or to dispel the fear for an untimely death so easily as he did.

If eternity is night, then the night that suffers insomnia is still haunted by the loss-ness of living. Not losing life, but the living itself always as loss, as continuous losing and lostness.

At that night where eternity should have for one claimed respite, the body being remembered pushes away the peaceful darkness. Yet the body in its deterioration also brings back the faint yet somewhat horrible memory of that night in which awakenings in to the loose-ness of living will never be possible.

Two-foldedness of bodily remembrance.

Zero Count

Everything comes back to where all should restart. How can one have no solicitude for the future, or better, for time itself?

Though time should be passivity, or patience, in waiting for that which one would never lay fast hold of, this understanding cannot dispel the solicitude at present, a present in wilderness with nothing to look ahead of or back at, any more than accrue courage to confront the unknown that is one's equally uncertain fate.

Crying, want to be. Crying. Crying for that nothing in front of which one can shiver only. Tears as a token foreboding a year of throat-slitting test. A token betokens of a year of darkness.

If only tears can be shed.

Blood

血»
祭所薦牲血也 从皿 一象血形 此从O者 血在皿中 側視之則一 俯視之則成O矣

Blood there is. In a pate. The crying mouth sings either of the pain below or a prayer to the high above.

A drop of blood in the thralldom to the plate.