Hard

To be alive. To struggle. To fight and lose. Consistently. By degrees. To lose a little. And a little. And a little. But to remain alive. Is this life? Our slow death? We constantly fight to improve and grow and gain strength and wealth, to find time. We can't be dying from the time of birth, because all our hopes and dreams are born with us. But in our growth we lose. Gain and lose. And then at some point just lose. And what does it mean for us when the growing stops? Or maybe it doesn't. Not really. But at some point the losing overwhelms the growth. And death wins. The grave swallows us. And not our souls. But our bodies for sure. And not forever, but certainly for real. The moment of death, the transcription of ourselves--from one form into another. Or maybe not. Maybe we are immediately just as we always should have been. Human bodies, souls untouched by sin. But where are we? And where are we with regard to all who are left still dying? Parallel universes?

Sad. Broken hearted. Crushed in spirit. How much suffering is too much? Uncle, right? Uncle, Lord.