I know, now.  I am supposed to be dead.  I'm, uh, continuing... kinda.  Persisting, really, that's a better word.  Sounds like 'insisting.'  Like I am angrily demanding to stay alive.  Too miserable to die would be the crass colloquialism.  In some sort of fundamentalist glee, I should be praising God for these stolen moments, humbly thankful for more time, more opportunity, more room for experience. 

Fuck you.

I have never felt comfortable accepting credit (as if I had something to do with it) for doing something good (as if I knew what 'good' meant).  Without knowing, I give a glimpse of God to some nameless stranger in some midnight public park.  Or, having no idea what significance I may be, I shatter another's heart.  Shit happens; there's another crass colloquialism.  Stop pretending, in the prevailing parochial view of existence, that your actions have such grand importance; that you have any capacity to save, or, on the other hand, any capacity to sin.  We do not deserve the joy which stumbles upon us.  Nor do we fall into the various pits of suffering as punishment for anything we did 'wrong.' 

Our duty—if I may presume to say, and if such a thing can even be submitted to description—our duty is, quite simply, to live.  To live, without the constructs and defenses of the intellect; to feel, without the vast distances we so gracefully slip between ourselves; to weep echoing sobs and to laugh out loud and unrestrainedly, without making of reality a reduction, like a sauce, pretending to find the origins; to let passion take us, and not ask why or where.