The great boulder never moves, for the thousand crumbs deny it motion.
How often do we find in men of charistmatic nature the belief that they can achieve great and grand things? It is heartening when the emotional elements of inspiration and positivity uplift our mood to an elevation where all things seem possible. This remarkable sense of immediate fulfilment arrives at the thought that one is both capable and willing to travel the distance. Yet with merely a passing moment the momentum dwindles, other thoughts distract and divert our attention, and that bright clarity fades from sight. This is the human condition; the life of mortals in the face of ephemeral impermanence.
A man’s mind is broken into pieces. One hundred thousand things pull his mind, heart and body into innumerable directions that often contradict one another. A man is pulled left by the mind, right by the heart, and one step back by the body. It is the accidental and incalculable shifting of sand, standing on a foundation of soil which by its nature has no other plan but to perpetually transition from one state to another. It is the flux, the void where fragmented pieces form phantoms of a personality that knows not one whit of the world or itself.
There are great things to be done, yet rare is it to find an individual who is built for the task at hand. Surely they exist, but in scant count amidst the faceless populace of modern times. A period of great suffering is typically the precondition we find in those who later step upon a pillar of performance which later notes them down in history. For the remainder, that crowd of onlookers, pedestrians who desperately wish and hope to discover their purpose and meaning in life, the results are, more often than not, left to disappear with the cold passage of time.
What matters most is to realize that you are alive in the first place. Should this realization become a permanent feature of your experience of this moment, the possibilities are endless relative to the life that is had without it. For without this realization, a man who is not aware of his own presence, is by his nature dead to the world. When one lacks this intimate aim, his attention is subject and partial to the endless passing whims of fate and fortune. The crossing lines of every accidental pebble will take him off course and lead him astray. The weak-willed, fanciful, and naïve will likely justify such a whirlwind journey by saying something like “you never know where life will take you!”
As long as the crumbs of distraction live wild within our psychology, the energy that we have will be used up on anything and everything. Those large boulders of grand vision and promise require the same energy, and for them to come true a man must become a miser, a good business man, and hoard whatever he has in order that it may live. For to live life on a whim is to die as a scarecrow, a plaything of the lowercase gods, as they plod and knock us against each other, flocking us like herds of sheep, skinning our skins and steering us off cliffs for satirical amusement.
The number of issues, problems, and worries a man can concern himself with are truly endless. He will squabble within his own head for hours every day regarding the hows, ifs, whys and all of that energy will have been spent on producing nothing useful. A man is the result of his deeds, and for all of the potential he is granted in this life, his possibilities fall short according to his attachment to meaningles, pointless, trivial matters. They weigh on him heavily and constrict his free breath from flowing. What a sigh of relief he would bellow from his soul if he were to be unshackled from it all!