The right sort of seriousness makes everything that is potential possible, but it is awfully hard work compared to the giddy states of self-satisfaction that we can indulge in instead. The absence of effort lets the body, heart and mind move all on its own, but this the autopilot state of a puppet with no soul. To not sweat, and perhaps even bleed, for the sake of generating a quality of attention in yourself that will otherwise never exist mechanically on its own, is a downhill trip to assured mediocrity. There are only so many chances, a definite limit to the amount of time we are allotted, to take the raw dough of what we have been born as and create the quality of character that we deeply yearn for. There is no greater task to accomplish in life than to make of yourself an instrument for a greater cause or a higher influence that cannot be put into words. All of one’s imperfections are the result of a compromise to a petty readiness to submit to the pleasures of self-satisfaction, and to the slavery of the always uncertain approval of others. All of this comes at the expense of a quality of attention that can only fill an empty cup; when a thread of effort is strung so tightly to your motions throughout the day that it rings a tune of unmistakable devotion to an ideal.