On the top of mountains, as everywhere for hopeful souls,
it is always morning.
The hour is coming.
I have come to know this twilight. I know it so well and I understand what it means: that it is only a matter of time.
Most of the time I plead--no, beg--that it be so kind as to give me more time, enough time so I can finish what I have to finish, or what comes to the same, to begin what I have to begin. Just a little more time.
But I do not know of it listens or if it has pity and for that matter if it has a heart or if it has ears at all: it always comes at the right time--neither too early nor too late. It is indifferent to my time as it has its own time.
Because, really, what can postponement actually accomplish if it can never cancel it but only prolong it? Better now than later.
But I am not yet ready as I have miles and miles to go before I sleep. No matter, they are all the same: you will again walk that road when you wake up.
Have I not already slept the sleep of the just? No matter, better now than later.
Is this what I deserve by asking for more?--by asking that I carry more than I can suffer so that you may delight in my weakness and so that you may see my silent strength?
You didn't understand me then: what I wanted was something heavier. I never asked that you take this cross from me. Don't you remember?--I clearly said "deeper, deeper, deeper," because my feet are already on the ground and I want to remain waist-deep or submerged swimming in your hell as I carry your boulder. Because to walk on water is too easy. I want to swim.
Higher. Go higher.
But I have come to the peak of your icy mountain, I have filled my lungs with your thin air, where else do you wish that I go? The way up is the way down.
But I have known the land so well and now I want to swim in your air. No matter, they are all the same.
This is the twilight: to reach the peak where the sun never sets but to know in your heart that you must go down once again to where shadows feast and where despair prepares for its son's inevitable return.
If only I could stay here a bit longer. Just a little more time. I beg you.
. . .