Updated: May 17
There is no game greater than one played in the midst of the tragedy of life. Sufferers and ascetics, religious men and scientists, philosophers and poets; all come to the circle of the round table to breathe easy in their shared love for life. A love for hate, a love for sickness, death, old age; the horrors of mothers and fathers. Too quickly are we to dry our tears, for their flow brings the coming of the rain, and the life that it grows. Where should there be beauty, but in the heart in the sufferer? In the souls of those sad; there is God and gods, for the greatest fate rests with the one who remains human-who may stand with and without his heart, with and without himself.
What need is there for pleasure where beauty is concerned? What greater task can there be to live among those who share our humanity? Look close into the hearts of men, and see soon that there will be but corpses amidst the living world, driven on and on by pleasures of the most mundane kind. Where are the pleasures that dream? Where are the pleasures that grieve and sing of their own passing? Lost-lost in the arts of the un-suffering; lost to the infinite comforts which would coddle the common man into a grieving world, dreamt up sweetly by substances of mind and body. Where God is concerned, there is concern. Where pleasure is concerned-without the wholeness of the beautifully suffering heart-there hides God in the closet, shut away by fools and prophets.
For this we must sing, for that we must cry; and by the by we rest softly, finding nothing because there is nothing, and something because there is something. Grieve not, for not even grief is true suffering; there are fates worse than to be burdened with truth, and by being so burdened-free.
The alone are the free, for they upon returning to their masters are the only ones who can see the worth of freedom. Man without his own mastery is not free, he is not a tyrant, he is not the victim, he is not a stoic, nor a man of God, nor of the Tao, nor worthy of any name worth speaking. He is nothing. And in this nothing there is no substance but substance-there is no life but life-deprived finally by the living. Too soon with his suffering does man do away with himself, and in doing so he is gone-sent away to lands of paradise which are only seen with eyes closed-for the gates of heaven remain unholy in the face of solitude, and the gates of hell are a warm welcome to those who should choose to live.
To live is to be living-there is nothing less; and he who may embrace his right to live is not Godly, he is human most.