Whatever the universe might connive to convince you believe there is no more merit in having to struggle and toil endlessly to survive than being comfortable, content and replete, in conditions which are wholly endearing, and notwithstanding profoundly preferable.

Morals and ethics attempt to make ease a negative state, when in actuality the condition is most ideally suited to the human beast. The cloak of laziness slips around our shoulders most comfortably, making us all warm and fuzzy in our appallingly good fortune.

The desire for revolution does not arise from a need to impress universally a state of equality amongst people, rather from direct individual privation and personal struggle to be served a larger portion of the collective pie. Greed and jealousy are ever prime most motivations.

It would be wonderful to conclude that homo sapiens are naturally inclusive and charitable, but in reality such desirable qualities are decidedly taught rather than genetically engineered.

In the depth of winter, particularly in dowdy conditions, the definition between night and day merges quite confusingly. I tend to find myself ignoring the clock and rather staring out of a  pane of glass at a universe turned topsy-turvy  sufficiently to make and chance of regulation sleeping hours a forlorn hope.

Snow fall is eternally captivating, whether the flakes descent slow, or in a blizzard, in the morning, afternoon, or in glistening moonlight.  As the ground disappears under its fresh blanket of fluffiness, I am captivated by the harsh gentleness of the image.

Everything looks prettier covered with snow, dash the inconvenience, the sight somewhat warms the heart against any biting chill. The first footprints will be as offensive as an abstract splash of graffiti across a masterpieces canvas.

We all know the thaw must come, but in its spoiling of such pristine perfection will cruelly tear our hearts asunder.

Strength, independence, and longevity result from the ability to fight and survive significant opposition. An unopposed force will roll forwards quite comfortably as long as ‘tis able, will not slow or cease progressive motion till some   obstacle appears to curtail   the freedom of advance. When such a barrier arises, erupts, the true test of an ideal, movement, persuasion, will be validated by the capacity to endure a temporary halt, overcome the pressure to be confined, corralled, controlled, through another’s will.  

Conflict it the only real measure of individual and societal determination, indicating the strength and persistence of any desire, belief, fundamental perspective.  

Upon occasion there comes along a tale totally without appropriate or comfortable finish, that can only be hastily eliminated, stricken from the collective memory, erased totally, become as if sacrilege, unrepeatable, heinous, too dangerously destructive, doomed thereafter to remain silenced forever more, and one day longer.

Such poisonous anecdotes do truly exist, they bubble beneath the surface of polite and correct conversion, threaten to spring forth at the unfortunate slip of a tongue, or some casual uncompromised statement of an ancient truth, to date carefully buried by nicety, social convenience, habit, politeness, political expediency.  Grandiose honesty is ever thus censored, carefully cleaned, remorselessly polished to remove any possible trace of primal inflection. For ancient candor can be too blunt, genuine, uninhibited, for either good taste. or sage repetition.   

Humanity is no longer the base creature that crawled from the mire, for better or worse our species has civilized, acquired deviancy, in brute verity at least.

There is nothing more precious than life! And with that realization come the acceptance of an utter fear, terror, abject horror of its extinction, theft, early cancellation, elimination.  But the fear of mortality has become an elderly concept, with other aims taking over immortalities once unapproachable position as the ultimate goal. Position, relevancy, social and historical significance, are presently accepted, even preferred, to good old-fashioned longevity, suggesting, rather too loudly, that fame is the ultimate material possession, and outweighs all other factors.

As an explanation for this change of priorities we are told, in a rather   officious manner, that the record of human achievement is now magically indestructibly contrived, that present renown will remain relevant forever, that all personal accomplishments will linger unabashed and undiluted into the far distant hereafter.

Naturally, such assurances are totally false, erroneous, contemptuous. When we are incapable of preserving our planet, how can anything ethereal be expected to survive?

My memory about my many relationships is crystal clear, most colorful, and thankfully wholly honest, unsanctified, containing no excuses for my consistent failures to manage to control my more unsavory characteristics sufficiently to dilute the ever-growing fears of my partners. I was ever a particularly bad catch, a project in need to serous commitment and endless forgiveness, more problematic than is reasonable to lay upon the shoulders of any another, particularly a comparative stranger who has really no idea of the depth of the task at hand.

I seem to have had a propensity for picking hopeful souls, heartily dissatisfied with their lot in existence.  My ability to seem at once amusing, interested, and unfettered seemed to appeal quite handsomely. My complications are all internal, well concealed, invisible at a casual inspection.   I found being amenable a very easy cloak to wear, handily covering the multitude of inadequacies writhing beneath this well-presented exterior.  But time has graciously made me translucent, and thereby a far less disappointing in the long term.

Today is my birthday, the annul anniversary of my first appearance on this earth. No outlandish celebrations, rockets shooting skywards, rather a most modest recognition of an event that transpired seventy two years ago, in what often seems like a different  time epoch entirely, with differing rules, ambitions and possibilities. No doubt that particular feeling is shared with anyone with a keen sense of history and who commiserates with hopes and disappointments of a race constantly straining for the semblance of place in an environment that consistently proves surprisingly inhospitable to continuing wholesome development.

Our species is and ever has been a very awkward fit upon this revolving compressed sphere of dirt, a home particularly unsuited for easy existence. Constantly having to fight conditions and elements that seem obliged to surround and bombard us momentarily with dastardly challenges.  Any belief in divine placement has to be tempered with a profound acknowledgement of any creator’s extraordinary sense of irony, or perhaps just a wicked streak of humor.

I am classified as a disabled person. My challenge is not particularly obvious, I am simply dumb, have no ability to communicate verbally, apart from the most guttural of   resemblances to speech. These travesties of articulation I avoid most heartily, preferring the cloak of silence to the embarrassment of their most disturbing cacophony.  

My dilemma is accepted most chivalrously by those aware of my plight, those not familiar with the situation are inclined to take my pensive silence as a sign of rudeness, or a surly nature. I accept these false assumptions as merely a side effect of the condition, in our very verbally orientated society any pause or lack of conversation is taken as good evidence for pointed suspicion.  

I have attempted long and hard to remedy my short falling. through practice, lingual exercises, repetition, but have come to realize that the chain that magically coverts thought into vocal expression is badly damaged, almost entirely broken, and the likelihood of sudden or ever long-term healing in quite improbable, but we endure in our endeavors.

Our heroes tend to be emotional failures, individuals that though no fault of their own find it impossible to feel the regular joys and miseries of everyday existence. Often resulting of some traumatic event the past, their emotions have been damaged beyond any possibility of easy repair, and they are likely doomed to be stunted in their interactions with other parties as long as they manage to survive their foolhardy ways.

 The ability to constantly put their life indiscriminately upon the line is probably a consequence of this wholly peculiar freedom from the regular human fears and concerns. And ‘tis their utter casualness in the face of extraordinary danger that behooves us mere mortals to admire, nay worship, the lionhearts with such paroxysm.

We commend, applaud, the paragons heartily, but sensibility keeps us from following too closely upon the path they have so fortuitously cleared. Such bravery, foolhardiness, requires a very unique set of qualities, attributes, idiosyncrasies in direct opposition to those need to ensure a long, and successful reign upon this rotating jungle.  

There is nothing more terrifying than utter pointless evil. The Lack of reasoning behind such resonant hatred, the absolute omission of any consideration directing such overwhelming emotion, makes that bombards threat of destruction outreach any regular consideration, focus, or target, producing percussive shocks that are completely unconfined, as malignantly deadly as a fatally wounded tigress.  

Such horrendous renditions should simply be confined to the fictional horror genre, not possible or even imaginable in any reality, quite beyond the actions of anyone but the wholly criminally insane, and then only in the most psychological disturbing of cases. Crimes of ultra-violence should be beyond the capability of mankind in any but the most extreme circumstances, as even almost certain starvation does not promulgate a just cause for cannibalism.

Morality and ethics should in any instant outweigh all other base   instincts and countermand the natural tendency of persons to overreact when placed under continuous pressure.