I was reminded this afternoon, as I listened to the lyrics of an
isolated track from "A Grand Don't Come For Free" (The Streets), that at
the end of any day, we have our own back. Not that our friends and loved
ones aren't there for us, they are, at least for me, but that they
cannot help with the minutia. No man or woman can fix our lives or our
heads, save that we do it ourselves with their support. At the end of
the night, we have our own backs, or we fail. This is not the failing of
our friends, but the same demanding cost of living which blamelessly
occupies their own lives as well.

There is no rosy-fingered dawn, no matter how jubilant, that does not
contain a measure of sadness. There is no sadness, no matter how
profound, that does not speak of beauty. There is no beauty, no matter
how terrible, that does not carry a spark of joy. And so we live, in
imperfect happiness. Do we pray for a future that is different, a truly
new day? Do we pray for a time when humans and our humanity are no
longer so fragile? Or do we pray merely for understanding, for a way to
cope with our world and with our thoughts, in all their terrible beauty?

I would like to change the world, but I have no faith in changing the
species. We are, as we have ever been, with apologies to Tennyson, one
equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in
will. We all contain the spark of heroism, for every man, I do believe,
there is something for which they would give their all. Perhaps not
every man would choose to die for freedom or for politics, but perhaps
for importance, for love, to cry out their worth and meaning in an
immeasurable universe. We fight ourselves, we fight our fates, we fight
each other.

I am puzzled, at times, by the ardent faith of those I believe to be
wrong. How can it be that those whose arguments make so little sense to
me can walk forth with the passion and righteous fire that bespeaks a
work of the heart? Perhaps we will never know peace, but perhaps that is
the price of individuality. While I can not profess confidence that my
beliefs will ever be unanimous, that peace or goodwill will ever be a
greater portion of the human spirit, I can declare my intention to carry
on. Though works of beauty be touched with sadness, we work to declare,
to recognize, to illuminate that beauty. Perhaps that, then, is our
immortal purpose, one of many, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to
yield.

Much love to you all.
-J