Now that a little more than a year has passed since the great upending of my life, I find myself more often reflecting on the first psychic loss that prefigured this one, the loss of the hope of heaven, and the various terrors that fell out of its collapse – the fear of time, the fear of the infinite, the fear of change, the fear of memory, the fear of obliteration, the fear of the moment before obliteration, the fear of anticipation, the fear of noticing, the fear of history, the fear of progress, the fear of revelation, the fear of ignorance. For all that heaven might have been a mere continuation of the same surveillance and forced-cheer of white evangelical Christianity, the prospect of being extended into something endless and familiar was as reassuring and pleasurable as the prospect of a good, long meal without the possibility of hangover and indigestion. It meant the switching-off of worry and slipping into rest:
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