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by Danny James

In cowardice too often we smother our preferred or truest intentions for customary ideas less removed of tact. This when the eye concedes more risk than the hands can overcome, and with regularity becomes the automation, strengthened in its exercise. Who then wants to strive and fall short again, having not leapt a full leaps power, dwelling already his soon regrets? He may still, if only to find solace amid confusion of repair.

Hitherto every energy has allowed to being surpassed by a nobler action only thought of. And we know of diviner depths which we cannot articulate, where springs a tendency of genius so frighteningly accurate that surely some fatal misstep awaits, and so reason to curtail its directing. And has anything lately startled you truly out of all propriety? Remind yourself then, of when some spontaneity has occurred that you did not make your own; that you did not survive, or that ever failed to elevate you to new intellectual strengths, and you will not recall an occasion. As though we should snuff out the candle once in a while, and there in the dark by an innateness somehow will we reach out only for what’s needed.