too much compassion?

too much compassion?

fiction
Edward w Pritchard


Imagine how Jesus felt up there nailed to a cross reflecting on his care and concern for others and where it got him.

I was co dependent once myself, so in a small way I can relate.

Some folks last night stayed out late protesting the injustices of shootings and choke holds in Missouri and New York; some other folks went to bed early as their usual and customary coping mechanism.

Pumped full of heart pills I have lost my ability to suffer highs and lows. There's more to it than that; after a few decades of experiencing intense feelings I have leveled off functioning and feeling the world at a muted level, perhaps an evolutionary adaptation to continue my existence.

Bury your heart in old Testament lamentations, read Nietzsche or Sartre in the original French, with age if we are to survive life's tragedies and injustices we must become more selfish and less connected to the pain of others.

Here's what I wrote before on the spiritual journey from there to here:

My fears were many

fiction
edward w pritchard

My fears were many but I didn't always have them. I see much and I feel greatly.

To those I have harmed I am so sorry. I must reach out and leave the past. The past is mutely haunting. The past whispers to me in a foreign language.

Over the next hill I can see the sunrise, I hear an old song as I march. It is reassuring though the words are not clear. I walk toward an unknown destination with a budding hint of a smile. It is a forgotten smile waiting to emerge.

Should I see one in pain I will reach out, should I experience your suffering I will soothe you. Excuse me I must walk forward. I hear the wind whisper, I see the red dawn. Life slips away, I must walk purposefully.