Gun guy asked me tonight if he could borrow twenty bucks for some Thanksgiving-related food item. I had the money but said no. If he can afford to shoot bullets that cost $5 a round, he can afford to shoot his own food.
I enjoy my freedom and give thanks. It's not often enough that I contemplate how many human achievements made my awesome life possible. The forces that allow me to sit here and write this are monumental. My thanks to all those before me.
Just as the human eye sees a spectrum of colors, the human heart feels a spectrum of emotions. Sometimes I feel things I can't explain. My words are lost to frequencies beyond me, painted in colors I cannot see.
Why do they sing? What do they have to sing about? Somewhat apart from one another, separated by roughly equal distances, facing outward from the water, they clank and croak all through the night with tireless perserverance. To human ears their music has a bleak, dismal, tragic quality, dirgelike rather than jubilant. It may nevertheless be the case that these small beings are singing not only to claim their stake in the pond, not only to attract a mate, but also out of spontaneous love and joy, a contrapuntal choral celebration of the coolness and wetness after weeks of desert fire, for love of their own existence, however brief it may be, and for joy in the common life. Has joy any survival value in the operations of evolution? I suspect that it does; I suspect that the morose and fearful are doomed to quick extinction. Where there is no joy there can be no courage; and without courage all other virtues are useless.
Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours.
The breaking wave and the muscle as it contracts obey the same law. Delicate line gathers the body's total strength in a bold balance. Shall my soul meet so severe a curve, journeying on its way to form?
Love always creates, it never destroys. In this lie's man's only promise. Only the weak are cruel. Gentleness can only be expected from the strong. What love we've given, we'll have forever. What love we fail to give, will be lost for all eternity.
How can we judge the intimate spiritual needs of another, especially if that other has not elected to confide in us? What right have we to invade his spiritual privacy and thrust our tampering fingers into the wheels of his innermost being?