Lightness and weight

Einmal ist keinmal.
What happens but once might as well not happened at all.
Not so long ago, my fingers held on to the black and whiteness of words drifting in Elie Weisel's Night. White background giving depth to colours.
Contrast to give clarity.
Ironic, isn't it, to lose faith in all that you have believed in, just to believe in the exact opposite.
To lose all faith and believe in Neitchze's idea of death of God.
As this helpless, lifeless fifteen year old watched a small(er?) boy being hanged, his small weightless body swinging, even as death took its own sweet time to come.
Those hours where he hung between life and death, between light and dark, dark and darker.
This happened but once. The rest of the German adage is but agreeable in another dimension.
And yet I wonder.
Does this, then, imply in a marriage of Karma and absoluteness?
What about that moment when Tomas woke up and found Tereza holding on to his finger, tightly.
Will you, then, light up my face once and continue to do so over and over?
Or is life a singular tale, a life once lived, as good as not lived at all.

Though many a times it does seem like a friendly voice over your shoulder telling you the only thing you need to hear. Like late one night, when she drove on a calm highway, into a storm, refusing to look at the rareview leaving things behind. A tiny part of her soul believed.
But the rest of her shook with violence, any thought of comfort, any thought other than his fingers wrapped around hers.

Oh Kundera.