Palooka’s balsam

It is a blessing that we don’t know our precise endings. Otherwise, the finest go-getters among us could not have moved past a single step. A sense of uselessness, a moot feeling, would tie everyone with heavy gravity-like shackles to the earth’s core! Regularly, though, we lurch into an inconsistent belief from the eruption of our doubts. The exactness of fate seems arguable in our minds, which fuels the yearning to turn things around to our ultimate advantage. How much absolute control do we retain over this assumption? What would constitute a good ending if we walked through it on our terms? Would the verdict be universal? The brittleness of these inquisitions is too convoluted to confront head-on. The hermit says, “You can change how, when, and what path you choose, but you reach the same finish line. Everyone’s permanent address is not unique. It is the same.” So, every heart is always ablaze in a stupor. Is it then a crime to avoid heeding any path? Can we not seal ourselves in a dungeon and twiddle our thumbs instead? We would feel triumphant momentarily in the most mundane, monotonous activities, but would our hearts feel ameliorated, at least temporarily?

We can imagine how it can appear when we debate the end game. During formidable times, the potential for daydreaming is heartwarming—an ultimate alleviation, if not an eliminator, of anxiety. Likewise, we will not be around moments that are the wake of our “end,” however we want to portray it: good or bad! Our lives survive in the memories of others, in the sculptures of our days when we made our way through the excursion. It is wise to make the short story of our journey dazzle—too sparkling—instead of being preoccupied with the aversion of the end.