Occasionally I Contemplate Murder 17
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he intricate biological machinery of man really allows for a longevity we hardly reach.
All the body cells, except those of the nervous system, are renewed in such a fashion that every seven years the body is completely reconstructed. Replaced from top to bottom.
So, the only irreparable things in the whole body are the nerves and the brain cells. Still, they would suffice for much longer than the hundred or so years, optimally given to us.
Why do we grow old? Why the ageing process, not at all called for?
No matter how careful we are with our diets, nor how much we protect our bodies with Medicare and physical exercises - by time, our automatic decay is commenced, always with a fatal outcome.
They have decided, it seems, that we should walk on earth for a limited time, and then - whatever we do, whatever we may feel about it - life is gradually stolen from us, sucked from our very chests.
They have to fight for it.
In many cases the fight is so uneven, it takes little more than one piercing of the heart, for a definite outcome. But sometimes, the Gods must roll up their sleeves and use every trick in the book.
I'm sure that with some people who have walked this planet, it must have been quite a costly victory.
I have friends who are deeply afflicted by such divine precautions. Strong-willed and enchanted by life, they are. Fate hits them with many a forceful blow.
The divine intention with this misfortune must be to make them fatigued, when the time comes. To weaken their resistance.
Could that be the explanation to all the pain going on here? A measure of precaution.
Still, a few of us stand up from every blow, a little stronger than before. Yes, some people sure are a match for the Gods.
Every man's life, no matter how dear to him, is finally conquered and ended. Each proud neck will bend and every firm grip will eventually slip.
Why are the Gods unbeatable?
Simply because they will not cease until they win. Time's on their side, and that is - even to the Gods - a most powerful ally.
They have a lot of time.
The accordance of the victim.
As in every murder, no matter what giant holds the blade, the victim must - whether ardently or infinitesimally - allow it.
Although miraculous, life does by time become a bit boring, or at least fatiguing. Not in the cells of our bodies, perhaps, though they tend to loose their vigor, but in our minds. Perchance, in the very substance that is never renewed?
Even of the best of meals one can only eat so much. Although we still regard it as very tasty, indeed, we push the plate away and close our mouths.
Then the Gods are free to do their burglary.
There is pleasure at both sides of the dagger:
One the one hand the excitement of the person who performs the stabbing, stemming from the satisfaction of doing the irreversible. On the other hand the relief of the person being stabbed, thereby leaving this earthly existence in one of the rare ways that will cause no embarrassment at all, in front of the kind of Jesus.
In the words of Juliet, the young girl who loved so much and strongly, it would be impossible to settle down in a lifelong marriage:
"Oh, happy dagger!"
Maybe the instrument - although having no say of its own in this - is as pleased as the others involved. Who can say that the tool will not derive any satisfaction from participating? To be the instrument, without which the murder would not take place, and yet, to be innocent of it.
That's really not so different from the role of the executioner, except for his ability of a choice.
What is the experience, if any, of the instrument?
Maybe once, the Gods were really the initiators and the omnipotent, capricious rulers of the game. But now, after aeons of complex interaction, they must be as indistinguishably involved, as the rest of us. We're all doing what we must, allowed but one choice:
To enjoy it, like good sports, or to suffer and complain at each moment.
What choice is that?
I need not. Enough of it, as it is. Come, shout with me: