The greatest remedy for anger is delay.
My glowing daybreak friend, from the nearest reachable greeting point of this shifting globe I lunge thee toward with unbearable stillness, and will, with all the wishing might of a child at Christmas Eve, for a quicker revolution and that cardinal glimpse of thy gladdening light jovial patience rewards.
Patience? My time is short.
Alexander to Aristotle, Alexander the Great (1956, film)
Stamina, heart? This is reasoning past reasonable gravity. In this realm my strength is none. My Sun, my saviour, my giving grace; turning away from thee, is but looking ahead for thee.
A true and formidable wellbeing springs not from comfort, but, is rather extracted by honest and particular considerations of difficulty borne. Calamity instructs by eventual. The justness of an anguish is never forthwith known.
Son, though you know it not, soon a great peace will befall your searching soul. A realisation you will not recall as one event but as having occurred in fragments over a duration, dotted yet of many pangs to come along the approach. The days of life are many more, and you will not grow old ascending always your mountains but I promise, you are surely being prepared to receive the love you cannot find, and a most heavenly glade you will someday simply happen into, finding there an everlasting contentment with all the pains that have passed and blessings most brief that braid every lifetime. A place to which there are no directions, where the summits shadow does not access and we are all here waiting. You must have faith you are coming home all along.
Like many such days designed and pressed with expectation, I relent rather to dormancy’s caramel tenure, that calculation has exhausted the hands would earn their bread. And it is not before the sheer that I bend; I reserve no energy for homecomings, and storm or mountain perchance be-damned if we but departed forthwith. I’m intent and flint as any have I known, but struck in aim and vernal outrage, many of the bridges from which I’ve leapt are ashes now. Mark how my wake bears charring of my passage, that life must wrung of its barbarian dreams be, and they, hitched and ridden across the arches of infinitude among such star stuff as hero’s call home, and the dying, paradise. It is not the errand itself, but the preparation that, too long drawn out, wanes the breath of that dividing lunge and kills the dashing in me. Momentous endeavours of great risk and dividend require oddly proportioned drafts of growth stratagem, and a vein of personal patience like exhibits a column saint. The better influence of discretion swells but when the sum of necessary efforts, by their own are a metric, and the cannons thus are cold that cannot a smoking wick inspire them. I have often too, fatigued myself thinking long beyond a common bound of hopes fantastical, only to climb down off my Nebula and let the air out of the day, – deflate its glorious promise, and murder all my plans and prospects thoroughly.
Brother mine, harsh and reaped, that you would learn the much you teach of patience at quarrels come, and how much further might you reach if not stopped to violations sum. All is not the piercing you receive, but by bad reckoning of occasion. Thy posturing belies it; thy rough wit attempts to gloss the account that my better boding by denying, endures: for I can not, and I must not become that viper and snatch from my friend, small victory on a day will yield him few.