It all came back to me. Reading my journals from ten years ago, I remember how painfully stuck I was in my inner turmoils. Every day, for several years, my entry was almost identical. First, the confessions. I …
I was in a café the other day, and four ladies were having coffee at the table next to me. They were chatting merrily about social things, when a couple of them noticed a man they knew walking into the café. The man took several steps in their direction, and suddenly pivoted around and walked out the door again.
The ladies were aghast. One by one, wide-eyed, they chimed in:
Years ago, I was bedridden with a bad case of depression. I could hardly move, as though moving would quicken the death I was certain would come. Yet death would have been welcomed considering the dark space I was in, if not for my fears that everything I was feeling at that moment would be intensified before death would embrace me into nothingness. The paradox I faced was that I was in so much pain that I was hoping to die, but in order for death to come I’d have to be in still greater pain.
All very morose, to be sure. But every day, millions of people go through the very same thoughts I went through that day. Stuck between the fear of existing and the fear of dying, many people are confined to a dull existence consisting of only passing the time. Even without physical death, they are dying on a spiritual level – struggling to control, fix and manage the scarcity they perceive in life, in a race against time, believing that if they didn’t succeed they’d be diminished to a tiny speck of insignificant, inconsequential thing.