How quickly one can forget the luster that is painted by life before us in the color of season, the blend of passion, when the faint chills of idleness wrap around our skin like a cruel mist and the beauty of anything seems to stir within us not admiration, but a sickening indifference. Moments when Belief and Hope are swept away by the dull pain of all that is mundane. Yes, when heralds to others grate against our senses like some strange jilted laughter, mocking the absence of the inspiration that we seek.
More painful than the envy of others is the jealously of one's potential! What is the name of that suffocating Force that pulls and ties! How does it begin, this lulling music that melts away the ambition of a man? And what is its meaning? Can one not break its grasp? Is there no answer to its riddle? Some healing balm to rid the mind of its sleepy influence? Surely if there have been fine things made in this world - art, beauty, thought - there must be an antidote.
And how loathsome praise can be! How vile it is when pited against accomplishment of thought! Against the seed of greatness! Like the vulgar strikes of a whip - passionate, cultured, wise!
And what is wisdom that one should seek it? What is knowing that it should be desired? No, solace is in the deed, in the realization of the idea.
Perhaps the poet's words are true "our remedies oft in ourselves do lie." What other can there be? And, as yet, it remains distant like the ringing of a faded song or the glimmer of what is unspoken. So we wait to find or be found. We search still.