carlespiemaryalice

I am more afraid of running out of time than of dying. I am not confused about the difference between the two.

If my mother knew all that I have done that I should not have done and all that I have not done that I should have done, she would be both proud and ashamed of me — one just a bit more than the other.

I do not love or hate easily; I believe both emotions are important. One should be done with care and caution while the other with deliberation and decisiveness. Which is which depends on the context.

I realize that the kind of parent one is, is often, to some extent, a function of the kind of parent the other parent is. Somehow, however, that fact does not make me feel any better.

I have been a fool many more times than once — and so have the “gods.”

I have many regrets — as many painful ones as mundane ones. But I do not regret regretting; because I regret, I suffer no delusions about my humanness or the humanness of others.

I am a deist. I believe that a First Cause, or an Uncaused Mind/Intelligence, is responsible for the existence of the universe and all its component parts — including life. Immediately thereafter, this Being or Beings, i.e., “God,” abandoned us and left humans to the devices of the maleficent trinity: Whimsical Chance, the Workings or Agenda of Others and alas, Our Own Doings. Everything that has happened, does happen or will happen can be traced to those three alone — not “God” or his “Devil.” “God” does not deserve credit for any “evil” and no blame for any “good,” or vice versa.

I am my own hero, for who could be a better champion for me than I?

I am not a happy person. There are certain things, however, for which I am happy — even delighted. But in the heart of my heart, between each beat, there is sorrow. I am pained at what humans do to other humans. I grieve at the exploitations, the sufferings, the injustices. I see the strong, and all they do to those not. And my heart weeps. I can only savor the few joys and cherish those who and that which bring them.

I am guilty of not saving m mother — of not being able to deliver her from her tormentor. But in that regard, I am as guilty as Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah, Jesus, Vishnu Zeus and all the other “gods” because they did not save her either. Nonetheless, their cowardice does not diminish mine.

I hate being wrong; I detest it. In fact, I abhor being wrong so much that I desperately want to know when I am so that I can stop.

I wonder, at night: What did “God” do today?