It Is Very Hard
To be the wrong kind of right
To be patient
To endure
To face to the wind
With hope
And zeal
To accept truth
To behave honestly
To love good
And to be good
But hope at least.
Hope just comes.
Voltaire said:
“Every man is a creature of the age in which he lives. Few are able to raise themselves above the ideas of their time.”
What Voltaire misunderstood is that it is not only zeitgeist or influence of our age that we must resist. Rather, it is the malevolent force of will that stalks us. Those seeking righteousness especially. That it waits and watches like a specter in the shadows and the quiet moments of our life. It is there when we are alone and most honest, so honest in fact, that we give the demon the intel it needs to perform its clandestine mission with greatest efficacy.
So, designs are made, traps are set. Disguised on paths we do not know we will yet walk. They are tended, mended and adjusted through days of our lives as the hunter stalks us. While we become comfortable and complacent and confident that nothing will ever befall us. We, the most common of men. Who, by the hunter’s measure are anything but common.
We are big game.
The trophy of trophies with which he will not just decorate his wall, but then host a dinner party on the day of his execution and laugh with maniacal glee at how clever and patient he had to be to accomplish his dark deed.
And when he pays the price of non-existence, it will matter not at all to him that we already have.
My fear
My damning confession
Is that I may not
Be
That few.
Or
The
One.
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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