376: Wonderfully optimistic man

by Danny James

And he took his torment with a calm of one in maturity and well versed in the stirrings of the heart and human behaviour. Else what could he do, but what he could do? Which he was discovering only as he did. The heaviness of heart when it comes to mind too late, that it has all settled into place and some of the pieces are lost. And so would you never know to come across his path, that glowed subtly like a Summer afternoon, a kind of washed milky glow like a smile withheld but radiating from the heart, that all he wanted was for her words to fill his space again, and her eyes to find him so that he could melt into their orbit and stay there adrift and free, but never again, O lost. The object of his affection and duty was gone and he could not find her. His connection removed, deleted, though remains the circuitry, he fumbled the new reality. Wandered without aim the weary watchmen with no guard to keep and habits of service still strong in him, lacerating each time with the bitterness of their precision. Trudging forward, broken and decommissioned, by old emotions and automation haunted. A wreckage convulsing to the streams of recollective bites and static of memory. Some days worse. And though limped his soul, charged and recoiled in reflex of binary opposing instincts, survived in him still a restless vigour quietly pressing on, devoted as ever to the faith that each hurt is somehow a gain accumulating, and a needed provision for enduring the road few endure, toward mastery. He Went about his day, sacredly and silently, human and whole as could. Made his bed, did well his work. Adopted new routine, and perfected the humdrum attention to details that would add-up. Not to distract but to cultivate a reaquaintence with the things that were truly his, and the habit of durability. A certain authority develops recognising thus what can one control, taking all else with a contemplative distance, and so this way, he managed to salvage his days. Went home to his chamber each night, concentrating his thanksgiving into the sky, stifling who he was before and burying his grief deep into the soil of memory, than rather cast it off to winds of past. He would keep it, always, and would use it in methods of reminder and lesson, uncommon to the defeatist who go nowhere, value nothing good and complain that providence hath not with progress their luxuriousness of inaction graced. And he knew through it all, what survivors know best; that when descends hardship, or fortune rains favour: no grief is final, no joy is everlasting and are both at times satisfying and intolerable and entirely manifest of the mind. Only patience builds the strength, by difficulty and effort revealed. He was getting back day by day, who he might become and it would take as long as it takes.