I wrote the following in a journal using an extra fine black pen last year on May 14th, 2020:
I feel that much of my pain and disappointment has stemmed from my expectations. I wanted the world to give me a lot. I saw people with wealth, and I thought I deserved that wealth; when I saw that the path to wealth crossed decades and generations, I came to resent wealth and the wealthy, for many of the wealthy did not need to cross the violent and vast spanning river of trial-and-time-and-chance.
I grew resentful, fearful, and hesitant as time passed—feeling as if I were trapped in a devious mechanism whose purpose was to drain my life and soul to sustain the livelihoods of those that stood on the shoulders of generations. I was a man living in the shadows of vampiric titans and unconscionable gods. My heart tells me this is so: the world is, in truth, such an awful a tragic place for any man who dares look up with open eyes.
Regardless, I sense the need-and-calling to step forward in whole-being—entering into the world, humbly, expecting neither blessings or curses, expecting neither pain nor pleasure; going forth, not as lamb to slaughter, nor as a compassionate-mindful-monk.
—Rather I would go swiftly, attentively, with measured caution, and calculated force.
Ride onward, Hermes
Between Scylla and Charybdis
Beyond good and evil.
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