From whom shall I draw inspiration? I have been talking about Philip K. Dick too much, I think. Once I read that the prophet Ezekiel was deemed by modern psychologists to have had schizophrenia. He did indeed have wild visions, I guess strange enough that people today would find him a madman. Maybe I should look there, though I cannot hope to be a prophet such as he.
A prayer:
Lord, I am a useless servant. Forgive me the pain I have caused you as I wind into the life that I should lead. I am quick to anger and slow to forgive; I cannot let things go as I should. If this madness be the cross I need bear, let me bear it with any little grace there may be as I stumble. I grope in darkness. That which is yours, my Lord, let me be. Let me show as much mercy as you have shown me. Grant me a little of your truth, and let that be my lamp as I wander through life.
Amen.
There must be reasons, no? Why we suffer? Why we dream? I once walked where there was no meaning, no why. I can hardly remember it. Did you parry the words of my prayer away — as you read it — by the shield of your own ideas? Of what must be going on with me, you must have some thought. And I have a thought: I think I know you, too. A little. I used to be like that. I used to laugh at people like me.
I am thinking less and less that I am the Antichrist, and that is a good thing. Other sufferings come — delusions perhaps — ones with sharp edges, ones that bring me to my knees. Madness is a long night. When dawn arrives, I know my eyes will hurt with the brightness of the light.
