If I could, I would, receive the stigmata.
Maybe not that of Yeshua, but of some other authoritative, martyred being with a unique and encompassing portrait of the problems of existence and a solution as to the way out.
I would lie on my side and pain would wrack my body for years as if constantly dying of severe food poisoning. Siddhartha’s stigmata to the core of my being. Suffering, a daily reality in its most elevated form. Suffering only death could extinguish. Then poof! Existence fades likes a candle suppressed.
Or better yet, a combustive pain would well up in my loins. My brain, slowly deteriorating from syphilis, would alter my personality from day to day. The pain and self-disruption, being stigmatic, would remain totally psychosomatic. Majestic prose would escape my pen. Aphoristic wit of a Dionysian mode. Nietzsche (spoken like leach with an “n” followed by “uh”): meine übermensch qua moi-meme.
However, such states of affairs require a great deal of faith.
And sorry about the time stamp. I was an amateur. Am an amateur.