I find it such a painful irony to write here, so sure of what to say, when writer’s block has crippled the creative energies needed to push through the first part of my novel. I suppose that I can metaphorically say that it’s in a coma, waiting patiently for a magical injection that will arouse it from it annoying slumber.
Life, too, can have its ironies. A workaholic who can find more meaning to his or her existence in that monotony of their cubical instead of being with the spouse and children or an addict that sees their addiction as more of a nutritional support; a need to survive. That leaves a question: has the Lord predestined our short lives to run a certain path, or are we alone on this earth, surrounded by evil, having to survive with flawed knowledge of good and evil? That is how I sometimes see life, as any struggling soul would see it, when I feel down. When I am up, life takes the whole new dimension of extending heaven to Earth with my own unique gifts.
I am reminded of the famous soliloquy of William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, in act 3 scene 1. There is one section, I think, that something every lost person considers, ” For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.” Now rest assured I am not trying to be suicidal, I’m only commenting on how some people react to life’s challenges: with a defeatist attitude, not thinking that there is a God watching over them and waiting for total surrender before His divine hand can move.
This poem I composed will try to illustrate:
These mortal coils…
I see every man wrapped in mortal coils. Like the lifeless cobwebs of a spider, over our minds it is spun.To reach the depths of the soul it has only just begun.
The world’s sweet temptations, its lies, its trusting(so-called) hand… Drags us slowly beneath a bottomless pit of burning sand.
How sweet would you mortal coils be! To serve as a valorous shield so certainly!
But these coils(alas!) are not armored and concealed, but naked; bare to allow life’s battles to be a contagion that rots our resilience and eventually brings us under.
Could our own strength be that bulwark? As Shakespeare’s mad, melancholic tragedy, should we shed our ‘old’ mortal coils and not die — butfight through life’s toils —
— With a higher guardian on our side?