I’m overwhelmed by life. I don’t know why, though I sometimes think I do. For the last two years, I’ve been on a daily dose of 20mg escitalopram, an antidepressant. But, let me stop there; I don’t want to write about myself; I don’t think I’ve been helped by others writing about themselves. Let’s assume you’re over it too. The medicine works, or doesn’t, and the memoirs inspire, or don’t; in any case, you’re overwhelmed too, and you don’t know why, though you sometimes think you do.
Yet something lives down there in your lowest with you; the last good thought, sickly and stripped down. Without it, your enamel would scrape against a gun barrel. Your last good thought is extremely weak, and may vanish any day now, but while it’s there, you’re there; in that respect, the last good thought is like Descartes’ I think, therefore I am, but the last good thought is infinitely more important.
If anything is religious, the last good thought is. Perhaps your true religion is your last good thought. Perhaps not. That question is irrelevant to you, isn’t it. What would it help you if the word “religion” were always strictly used this way or that way? Who says or thinks anything strictly? All that dies off down there in the lowest, like a botched joke.