Our bodies would like to teach us that wounds heal, but our spirit continues on, broken. It has been long now that I have believed we do not recover, we do not recover at all; every sickness leaves us lesser, there is no redemption, there is only a furthering: more exposure to what is, which is not just suffering but is beauty, in the way that the grey cloud is still pierced yet by light. And how difficult we find it to abandon our so-called dead religions: if I could be anything but what I am it would be Catholic, and this explains the iconography of Mary and Christ, two rosaries, the Sunday missal, a short book on the saints, and an empty white bottle meant to hold Holy Water on a bookshelf halfway down my foyer which only I have seen for what must be a year now.
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