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Friday, March 18, 2005

Have you ever had one of those nights when you can't seem to catch your breath, and the pressure in the back of your head is so great you fully expect your eyeballs to be bulging out of your head but you don't want to check in the mirror to see if they are because you know nothing good will come of that?

In any case, you're too dizzy to stand so that, as they say, is that. You feel overwhelmed and can't concentrate enough to watch TV or read so, instead, you lay in the dark and concentrate on being overwhelmed. You're waiting for Death to come but he's evidently taking his sweet time.

Damn that no good Death anyway. "Don't call me. I'll call you," he says.

That fucker.

Then you hear quiet sobbing coming from your darkened bedroom and you wonder what the hell is going on in there, until you realize you're the only one in the bedroom but, since it's dark in there and you want to be sure, you give the room the once over. Yup, you're alone. Never a good sign when sobbing is involved.

Pretty soon, you get tired of waiting for Death to arrive so you get dressed and go out walking. It's 2AM and nobody else is on the street, except some homeless drunks. No, they haven't seen Death lately either.

So you can't find Death. He doesn't have a permanent address, which makes him kind of hard to pin down. Death is like a homeless drunk in that respect.

Eventually, hours later, you end up back at home. You don't know where you've been or how you got back. The last thing you remember is feeling a bit overwhelmed and then all hell broke loose. Finally, you're exhausted and go to sleep.

The next morning you feel much better. You wonder what the heck you were thinking the night before. To the first friend you see, you answer, "I'm feeling much better today. Thanks for asking." even though what had actually been asked was, "Did you watch the game on TV last night?"

So the friend just shakes his or her head in the affirmative while smiling way too big, figuring you're in no mood to be trifled with.

In retrospect, you wonder if this is what St. John of the Cross had in mind when he wrote Dark Night of the Soul, and you'd ask him but, of course, he's dead.

The lucky bastard.


(The preceding was a reprint. Sometimes you still feel the same way come morning, but I avoided addressing that because I wanted to end things on an 'up' note.)

posted by Pete 12:11 PM
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