Borges' "The Secret Miracle" talks about an artist sentenced to death. Well, a writer, but I see no difference. With his several unfinished plays in mind, he prays to God in his prison cell the night before his execution to have another year for which to perfect his works. As the shooting guards aim, the universe stops except this man's consciousness. Within the subjective year, he perfects and finalizes his play he wished. The Universe then resumed and the execution was carried through.
Though morbid, and I pray I don't portray tones of helpless death, no one has infinite time to which to live. Everyone has a death sentence. And I don't know when mine is scheduled for, and I have unfinished plays to proofread and correct. In the blogosphere is where my universe stops to write. Like the man, I'm not writing for anyone but myself.
This blog, or essays which I prefer to consider them as, will hopefully become a secret miracle. I pray to be able to iterate my thoughts and reactions logically and capable of intelligent response.
I just don't know who to pray to.
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