another sort of false prayer are our regrets. discontent is want of self-reliance; it is infirmity of will. regret calamities, if you can thereby help the sufferer; if not, attend your own work, and already the evil begins to be repaired. we are poor though we appear rich in our possessions and appearances. the sword is not praised for its sheath but for its sharpness. our sympathy is just as base. we come to them who weep foolishly, and sit down and cry for company, instead of imparting to them: truth and strength in rough electric currents, putting them once more in communication with their reasoning.

as the old dies, the new will rise. darling, i kept on building when they stood talking. i dug the ground with a pick when it was hard and with the sun beating down; they stood and talked from these sidelines, telling me nothing will grow, i told them i’ll make compost and rehabilitate the soil as i plant. they kept telling me i’m wasting my time. i tell them, i will let this plow in my hand prove you wrong. i can’t tell where this journey will end but i know where to start.

i never understood why people always discourage you when you are living your dream. today i finally understand that, because they gave up on their dreams and let others take away their voice, they were subsequently conquered by fear; though they walk from pillar to post, they are dead inside living with no purpose. i find it interesting that parents never admit to their mistakes, they act macho and tough on the outside portraying themselves as some deity with a monopoly of knowledge because they have lived for so many years. it is not how long you live that matters, it is about how much you grow. and so i will not listen to what they say their knowledge is not insynch with the times. i will live from my own divine nature. it will lead me to where it ordains me to be

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