The sun asked the little petals
to surrender.
Winds were ready
to write the obituary column.
Roots too tired
to venture in the desert soils.
Rain —
it’s been 3 years.
Fellow pals
gave up a long time.
The sky and the earth thought
another day, another death.
there’s little hope
in the bony stem
if you ask me.
Yet
the lad
was laughing.
and taught me
more than any wise book
or the enlightened mystic.
When the rain
finally fell,
the plant
cried in silence
and told the flower —
I knew it.
Definitely not. Being a Dostoevskyian is sick and saddening. Why should any suffering have meaning at all? And we never search for meaning while we are happy. Is it to accept the helplessness and then seek some pride in it?
Friedrich Nietzsche says that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. But suffering rarely made any men stronger. Either they get used to it or become egotistical to accept that they too are weak and can weep.
Even after the Nth time, pain cripples us but humanity and so-called self-advertised strong men find it hard to swallow it.
This has a negative consequence—No one is seeking out help and is crushing their lives simply in the name of being stoic. This is a disease and a plague for us all.
They are dumping the waste into the subconscious and growing their Jungian “shadows” and society is raising sociopaths in the name of strong Spartans.
Acknowledging this can heal the sore souls and spoiled spirits. It’s time to stop searching for meaning in martyrdom and affection in affliction.
Thy Vox