You’ll have hard days and bad days and worse days, and whatever you did to build your strength and constitution against these days will prove not to be enough. Some days will simply be consigned to the waste bin, but usually only in specific ways. There’s never really a wasted day, because it is all mulch for some potential success — material or spiritual. But the meantime feelings won’t always read that way. How you handle it matters.
Some days, you lose fights. Some days, you lose even the will to have a fight to win or lose. The wasteland finds you sometimes, as often (or more often) as you find a wasteland to wander. Sometimes the wasteland will even find you in paradise, and eke out it’s little stripes of destruction even in the most vibrant of settings. Our spirits rarely achieve uninterrupted bliss, and the interruptions of that bliss are just as mortal as we are.
Read More
How do you handle it? How do you handle wounds accumulated in fights? Do you behave as if you’ve never had a hand severed in a war, if you have? or do you learn to live in adaptations accounting for that missing hand? At what point is a gesture toward spiritual strength (and a reaching towards bliss) a means of insisting the hand that is not is the hand that was never severed?
Only the gods are immortal; or God, if you prefer; or even: language that surpasses our bodies, and the entire world we’ve constructed out of the language that is both from our bodies and weaved in and out of our bodies. Our kind cast an enchantment of words and ideas on the world, and it, in turn, enchanted us. So what enchantment of false immortality have you cast upon yourself (or accept as an enchantment of others) that would lead you to believe there would be no days you’d despair? What led you to believe you could exile your shadow so thoroughly? Or even that such an exile would be good?
Your hard days, your despairs, they are your strength in masquerade. Your spirit grows in harsh soils. That is why the wasteland’s fertilization is a miracle, but one that is internally experienced more readily and often than it is seen literally. When the barren soils of your souls have been shown and told to seed the hardiest of growing things, and then these hardy growing things slowly transform the soil itself to be capable of growing more. And yet, we’d never hope to totally reverse every corner of waste, for those are the places of the faithful. If all faith was easily rewarded, its value would be easily forgotten.
Your hard days are your grains of sand, in the hourglass, from the desert, counting down until you have the strength to overturn it’s glass lens, up to down, down to up, and to reverse the illusion of artificial dooms in favor of authentic (but acceptable) dooms.
Your mortality is your beauty, your dharma need not be at loggerheads with that.
Just a thought.
