Days are fragments of life. Each one complete in itself. I wake up newborn, I withdraw from life at night. I pray, as my ancestors have done, to be back by the morning.
“Help us, our Father, to lie down in peace; and awaken us to life again, our King.
Guard our coming and our going, grant us life and peace, now and always.
Praised is the Lord by day and praised by night, praised when we lie down and praised when we rise up.
I place my spirit in His care, when I wake as when I sleep.
God is with me. I shall not fear, body and spirit in His keep.”
I wake up and I try to make it a good day.
Because that’s all there is to it. To fill this one with goodness.
The life which has one end at birth and the other at death, is made by tessellations of days which have one end at the mornings and the other at the evenings. The entire thing submerged in the great ownmost, non-relational, and not to be outstripped.
No day has voids in it. Between the morning and the evening, it ends up being filled up solid, no exceptions. We just get to choose the filling.
I fill mine with you, and I am happy.
Cited work:
Bedtime Shema
Voronoi
Parmenides
Bob Shur
Martin Heiddeger
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