OWNLY

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        I had a stroke.

        I thought that I had been coming down with flu.  I had slept.

        When I felt better, I could still speak the voice in my head but I now could not express certain phrases and words.

        I stuttered as I began to speak several simple ideas.

        I became scared.

        I tried to say certain familiar words but they became only a collage of sounds.  They had become abstractions.

        The sonically words sounded feasible, in an abstract meaning, but if I tried slowly to pronounce the word that I clearly thought that I was conveying I could actually no longer think of the word.

        It was impossible to exactly spell the hypothetically word I had frozen on my tongue.

        I could no longer read.

        It was too unbearable.

        I could perceive the far word on the left side and the far word on the right side.  Yet I could not bear to focus on the words in between.

        I could not bear to linger to “Talk Radio”.  I did not care about the arena of politics.  I felt that somehow my strength was being stolen.

        I did not care to listen to familiar songs.  They sounded so old and far away.

        I felt now that I have so little time, so little time that is important.

        Even as I wrote these very sentences I had to frequently correct spelling (“Take Radio”).  I had to read over and over.

        It was tiring.

        So much less now matters.

        For that which is clearly important, look around: the sunshine, the cool air, the fragrance of flowers.

        Look around.

        My mind is not turmoil now except when I become embarrassed by my stuttering, causing my confusion, agitated in my fear, at my job.

        My job had clearly become nonsense.  I had been taking it all so seriously.

        I had been hired because the government had insistent that a person within my bureaucratic function was required legally.

        The inner circle of owners considered my job as window-dressing.

        To think that I would debate with the upper management about matters that meant nothing reality, Ego.  I never get bonuses or raises or achievement.

        What matters now?

        I thought about my death.

        I was afraid of the meaning of my death.

        I thought about the generations who died; the billions of people, the trillions of all living creatures.

        Then I realized how life and death was still actually countable, the possibility to manage the counting.  There were plenty enough numbers, there were calculations.

        But then I tried to count all together, all the events, not considered just “alive”, “death”; consider the totality of events, the “universe”.

        It was then that I became stunned, stunned by the totality of events.

        I can speak of “Eternity” but eternity is strictly endurance of events.

        What is the other word?  What about the word for the volume of events, the vastness at any moment, unaccountable, immeasurable?

        Those are numbers not yet conceived, not even conceivable are they not?  Our exhausted minds can only call it “spiritual”.

        So, there is a Truth.

        Life and death matter after all.  Life and death, so small, so measurable, in the scheme of life and death, are meaning themselves, not like immeasurable, but a uniqueness.  They count.

        Purpose, itself.

        A stroke, as if by a spirit, my love was for you.

      My                   ownly

                are

                                        you

                                                        were.

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Follow This Link To My AMAZON.com SITE

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