I thought I had something to say this morning when I first arrived at the usual coffee spot in Renon, laptop in hand. On the contrary, however, the laptop, once opened and fired up, just sat there dumbly staring back at me, quite speechless after all. What was speaking, instead, was the relentless pain in my neck and shoulder, demanding my full attention.
"Why write rather than suffer?" the pain said.
"Why make this distinction between writing and suffering?" I retorted. "Are they not the same?"
"Ah, well, if so, then choose what is given rather than what must be sought. Why task yourself needlessly?"
"Because I would prefer ..."
"Ah ha! That's it! You would prefer a more comfortable sort of suffering."
"And a more meaningful."
"Indeed! You say, then, that I am devoid of meaning?"
"I say that you are devoid of depth."
"Oh really? Do say! Have I not already penetrated to the point of silencing your mind, to the point of smothering your will? Oh, empty man and frail shell. I speak to you and you speak of me. If you think this not so, examine your own testimony. And tell me then, which part is empty and which part full."
"Why write rather than suffer?" the pain said.
"Why make this distinction between writing and suffering?" I retorted. "Are they not the same?"
"Ah, well, if so, then choose what is given rather than what must be sought. Why task yourself needlessly?"
"Because I would prefer ..."
"Ah ha! That's it! You would prefer a more comfortable sort of suffering."
"And a more meaningful."
"Indeed! You say, then, that I am devoid of meaning?"
"I say that you are devoid of depth."
"Oh really? Do say! Have I not already penetrated to the point of silencing your mind, to the point of smothering your will? Oh, empty man and frail shell. I speak to you and you speak of me. If you think this not so, examine your own testimony. And tell me then, which part is empty and which part full."
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