A Poet's Journal: May 15th, 2014
Hope comes at the end of the day and the whole body is lightened. The day is over and the mind no longer subject to its suffering. Yet body and mind are never so long inconsistent to one another except when the thought believes itself an extension of action. For it is then that the end must come, that we seek with great anticipation the habitual comfort that has been hidden in our liberation from the burdens we are constrained to undertake. Hope comes and with it the insensitive eye that we are one with our nature, but nature does not await the future, it waits upon no ideal moment. The thought and the action are not a part of striving toward our nature, but merely obscure it by searching--for how often have we not found that the dullest and most distressing moments in hindsight become the happy and most eventful memories of our past?
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