Tied, is his neck, to the rolls of yesterday.
Men will always avoid the effort to examine themselves, truly and with unabashed care, if at all possible. Words run like shallow streams that leave the rubble of reality unchanged. A man may wish and hope in one moment, but when the time has dawned, aching as it does for action, he invariably looks away. It is not by choice, of course, nor a conscious derivative of what may be called upon as will. It is rather the wall of inertia he faces, as its facade runs steady up high, ten miles above his gaze. What is fancied as a thought is by no means manifest reality, since the song of unfoldment is wrung from the rags of a heavy past. This is the nature of what is, rather than a glimpse of a sweet daydream.
Many things come together to make one thing happen at a time. The face of it often resembles the garment of simplicity, and yet complication is the maker of its wares. How jolly may a man hum about possibilities and potential, and how readily does he forget his umbrella at the nagging thought of a chore that must be done. He will not look upon a truth for very long when his nature is, by its conditioning, designed to dart his eyes ever back and forth. His real disposition, layered by habits and well-woven leanings, slips through the cracks of his attention and keeps the man innocently shamed. He is, in this way, among many other ways, shaped and strung.