LIFE is a desert of time — hours, days, weeks, years perishing, with little time to face everything.
For what is yesterday, when we have stretched too far on a gamut painfully wide? Little things become big and they felt clever and carefree.
The initial pride forbids men to accept an affront, and learn that it is the first food of hate — the impulse to fight for difference.
We all seem to be basically much the same, when we need to feel with others.
Yet, what makes each mount on the shoulders of the next, trampling on those who would trample on his, forcing them below? How can you be above others, if others are not below? When good may lose and bad may win.
You wake up one day, out of step and troubled by one’s lack of concord. You are almost unable to like or understand much of what you see.
You feel at variance with the times, bereft of the right matrix — with the present crimes, violence and nihilism. They are heavy on one’s heart.
It’s confusing and you wonder as you weigh, appraise and record sufferings. You feel the sharp, impersonal impact outside as events rankle. One asks in alarm, where will all these lead? What effect would it have on people? And how different will they become?
Only yesterday, our love was warm. Life lights are aflame, as an accolade maybe for courage shown. In youth, the flame leaps because there is much life to be lived with fortitude.
But the second time around is just as grand, if you make it — a veritable tight rope of balance, keeping just well enough. Just have enough, enough to be gay and interesting, and sterlingly honest to remain a sentient human being.
The flame may burn faintly, but it is still there. In little, arduous amounts, we manage to create each by our colorful balance, in a flame that may be unsteady, but clear. It is still great to be alive.
In silent, hot rebellion, we cry silently: “ I have lived my life – haven’t I?, what more is expected of me?”
With a certain haughtiness, we realize that we have reached the place beyond resignation — a place we had no idea existed until we arrived here.
It is now our most precious place, where we can endure the next phase of our life that will have a wealth of patience, a treasure of endurance, immeasurable courage and cheer, and kindness culled from the old laborious days.
These are sure gifts worthy of returns.
We offer our flowers of humility. When we have questions on how much of the beloved is left for human purposes, and see just how good the human quality remains, we make our world out of what life offered — in tranquility.
But tranquility is not a grace waiting for us to take on as our right,. It is something we have to win with effort.
It may not be our doing, but what facing age does to us.
Can we do less than give fealty to such victory?
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