It is liars that tend to be the loudest, for their words must reach the back of rooms. Honest men in my experience by nature are quiet, for their words need not concern itself with the size of venues, the power of their words of an honest man come not from the volume of which they are spoken but from truth.Where falsehoods are limited by acoustics, the truth however, can be heard across centuries even as whispers.

The beautiful among us do not have it wasted upon their faces, to be fed upon by lustful eyes, to be faded by the ravaged of time and age. They impart theirs differently,weaving it within their words and actions to enrich minds and hearts,to which time the great destroyer of feebleness,  is compelled to aid its greatness through memory.

I have known no two words more dangerous together than “What if?”. How something so simple, so feeble a question will destroy a man, in attempting to answer what may prove unanswerable it will enslave him to the past. Those invisible chain will confine him while time in its slow unstoppable march carries the world forward. Left behind, alone chained he wastes away in that prison of his own making.

Men have always died. In dying they take nothing, so it was a man gives, what he leaves behind that defines him, each man building upon his predecessors legacy. Long forgotten ancestors left us an identity, a name. In taking a name Forefathers pass on lands and property.the men of this era are no different. In being given wealth and lands they ought to aspire and build, leave behind a world, a better one.

For many its a new year, a chance to reflect upon the past to start anew afresh. Not for me so much, just another sunrise amid many seen and hopefully many to be seen. The desire to reflect and to change should not to be tied to when a number changes every 365 days , rather that impetus for that should be daily. What good have I done today? What wrong have I done today and improve upon for tomorrow? To ask oneself those questions does not take a year, but a mere moment or day. Even the sun that gives life to this earth arises new everyday and yet man feels to do the same much less frequently. How is it that man has forgotten that his life maybe measured in years, but is truly lived and experienced in moments, hours and days?

When I die, my descendants will burn my body and cast the ashes into a river to be carried away. To them, only in death was I ever there. Yet it was not true. From my first breath to the last I was already there. The world and all within it being not unlike the river bed. The rushing current being the passage of time, how it brought new things from upstream, and how it eroded and decayed the old till it was to carried away, to either settle elsewhere or to float to the unknown.

Vengeance

There is no joy in revenge, it is but the path of emptiness, the path of utter poverty. In marching down it I have brought my enemy suffering as they did me, yet it is I who feels who wronged, who is being robbed of peace. I traded away the bitter pill of forgiveness for the sweet poison of vengeance.