It's all right, I suppose, unless you are under the attack of the melancholy demon. That strange effortful repositioning of yourself in the quiet, in a chair. Laundry, house chores: monsters that seem to stare at you through the mist of a dark haze that we call a night at day. Hours, the telephone -- unless misinformed -- rings for you, if it ever does. This night at day, yours to decide among drinks, or among books, or just sitting there in silence. The one who sits a second place at the table anyway. The one convinced that the monologue today in the car was a conversation with the past. The tears and sobs and moans. The meek, they say, inherit the earth. Damn the earth! You simply want your day back. That light that breaks this night. Alone, alone. Nobody can make it through this night alone.
A "restless" theologian in service to the church of Jesus Christ