Imagining the Occupations of the Saints

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At the Dark Mill watching the stone turn it's rounds, grinding down the years, days, minutes. Imagining the Occupations of the Saints. The long nights of darkness in the caves out in the Desert. The longer moments of doubt in the full light of day. Marking time in lines across their faces. Most of the time is filled with Being the in the World without forgetting. Keeping presence of mind. The Millstone rumbles in the reduction of everything, from the Rose to the Diamond, to dust. There is nothing but the Great Maw of Existence chewing everything down, the Gears of the Abyss turning the All back to Nothing. Time pressed against my back. Everyday I work over a mark on the Bedstone, jumping in as the Millstone passes, working up until the last instant, remembering not to get lost in The Work, and jumping back at the last instant as the Millstone comes back around.

The creation of such a hell as this

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There is a story of a man wandering through the ruins of a fallen house, coming upon an old man sitting in a chair in a corner. This man is ancient, beaten down, broken from time. The pain of existence has written lines across every part of his face, burned endurance through suffering deep into his eyes.

The wanderer asks the old man who he is and why he is here. The old man barely stirs in response, lifting his bowed head only slightly to speak, replies: I am God. And I am utterly exhausted.

I take odd comfort from this tale, a portion from the presence of deity, but that seems slight in comparison to the sense of endurance. That if God could survive the creation of such a hell as this earth is, then there is hope.