Sprit Post Mortem

What was this unarticulated joy that beat inside my chest? That which was expected and is past reflected numens chanting to my spirit, as if subdivided in my superconsciousness, I may not bear them as a whole though holy they may be... one mystery selects a lifetime as its drum and makes the years crescendo poco a poco from its infancy unto the crashing storm of age when breath itself implodes. I think it is too much-- a joy the mind at quest must know and not to be endured. I think a man must shake his fist in protest as Beethoven did, unable to sustain it to the end. It is the depth and height of ecstasy of which its single aim is to expire. ~