What is the truth?

Drunk and crazed in a solitary haze he stumbles through empty rooms a stumble bum mumbling the latest plea God shine a light on me — a preposterous request to be sure a silent voice in a noisy universe from an invisible man on a speck of sand not even remotely a mote in the eye of infinity and thus realizing this he amends the plea to Show me the way God — harking a song by Peter Frampton 🎶 Who can I believe in? / I’m kneeling on the floor / There has to be a force / Oh won’t you show me the way 🎶 — as the beseeching melody of lostness wails for the world to hear except God it seems so woebegone the drunken man wailing in the wilderness on the eight hundred and eighty-first day of her death (!!!!!!!!) the same song sung by a chorus of lost souls throughout the ages — Oh Lord hear our plea a fervent prayer to eternity a longing to embrace Hail Mary full of grace Ava Maria Virgin of the sky to know the truth we will die.

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The silence of the dead is deafening

When I was twelve years old I rode my bike twenty miles to sit at my brother’s grave. I talked to him through the earth. I asked him if he could hear me.

He was my older brother, twenty-four when he died on the side of the road, his head cradled in the arms of his best friend. His best friend had been driving the car and took a bend in the road too fast.

I have never received an answer from my brother.

When I was in my forties I sat on a balcony in Miami and asked my son (a Star Trek fan) to send me a signal from space, a sign that he was aware in some unknown dimension or otherworld or æthereal state of wave-being.

He was twenty-three when he swallowed enough barbiturates to kill himself three times over.

I have never received a signal from my son.

Now I am in my seventies and I sit in an armchair in the living room—now known as the dead room—of my bungalow on County Road 9 and pray to my wife to send me a sign that she can hear me, anything will do I tell her, the slightest hint, the briefest sensation, the merest brush of some sort of presence of her spirit.

For a day and a night I sat at her bedside in Intensive Care and held her hand in mine. She was deeply unconscious but her hand was warm in mine. I took that as a sign of life, of hope. I sat there for hours. Her hand grew cold.

I am still in the dead room, praying for a sign from my wife, a glimmer of hope that she is aware in some empyrean sphere.

My hope-beyond-hope spiritual longings appear to be hopeless. I conclude from these futile attempts to commune with the dead that if you wait long enough, nothing happens.

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