A man of sorrows.

A man of deep joy and immense sadness.

I can't share my pain my family. I don't feel "here" in some sense. Before I'm sure it was partly arrogant. I'm not here and better. Now it is just sadness. Softness, sorrow. A man of deep sorrow. My eyes are almost translucent, so much has been wiped away from soul. I have been Windexed, scoured, and scrubbed, and perhaps, pain and suffering aside, the window has become cleaner. Only so that more light may pass through it, illuminating others.

I feel like I could help, like I want to help. But I'm not sure who wants to hear, or whether I have anything left for the job. Only my presence, which is this marriage of joyful pain. There is nothing else but to open widen, to be stretched further. drawn and quartered by existence, ecstastically embracing in gratitude it all. It becomes so much more beautiful as it ceases to make any conventional sense.

I used to ask Why? Why me? Why this? Why now? There's no asking why. The only response is a finger to the lips, sad eyes, burning heart, and a deep gracious smile. There's no point in asking why because I've realized that even the answer doesn't interest me anymore. Assuming I could get an answer from the cloud, what would it be, how would it be any different than the whirlwind's retort to Job: Are you God? Did you make this? Are you the source of all the agapic embracing and erotic pull in the Kosmos? Did you still think that your puny mind could comprehend any of this? I am the isness of all that is. Could you possibly ever conceive how.

What WHY is there to a response like that?

Anyway it's real. Painful or not.