What doth it profit a fool...

To take a sharp, cynical view on things, one must apply the razor of logic, tempered with bitterness. For, with cynicism, comes truth. But never paired with love.

God mocks the cynic. Perhaps this is just the view of the cynic, looking at a Creator who is ever the incorrigible maker of obstacles. Obstacles whose only purpose is to teach. What then is the Creator?

A bitter man looks at the molding and shaping of the Creator, and laughs. Not in joy, but as a prisoner going to the cells. How is this lesson growth? Why can I not shape my own destiny, in mine own image.

Because you are bought with a price.

What does it profit a man, that he gain eternal life, yet loose his health?

Some might say everything, but a cynic snickers. My health is my life, and my life is everything. But what end does my life have?

Perhaps none, when you breathe your last, in desperation, gripping, clutching onto a lump of flesh.

I must seem dark to you.

Merely dusk to my eyes. You shroud yourself in pride of darkness. In pride of your dusk, you smirk, that you are wise beyond all others.

It is my last, and favorite clothing, to be the sharpest, wisest observer of all I know.

But what doth it profit a man, that he be the sharpest knife in the drawer, if he cut away all foolishness, but loose all love of life?

It is then the foolishness of man, that grasps at wisdom beyond the Divine, and seeks its Tower of Babel. My shroud of darkness is my ivory stronghold, my favorite defense, of foolish wisdom.

Then we must leave it behind, and become as children, seeking a Higher, Truer thing.

Indeed we must.

What man hath molded in his image...

To look at the world, we must see in context. See cultures, colours, ages, generations all mingled in a panoply of life. But what is the use of even trying to have context for anything? Admittedly things are easier to understand in context, or so we are taught, but humor rears its ugly head most often when context is absent. Perhaps even in the absence of context we see how absurdly amusing daily life can be: that language is a half trained dog that pees on our laundry piles when we least expect, and symbolic gestures are merely warm air being moved about for the benefit of conscience soothing.

Context is a mockery of truth, in some sense. We hope that by shrouding context about our lives, that we won't have to explain our follies quite so much. We can sit and sip our tea from fine bone china, and excuse ourselves for being mass murderers.

Over the top, I hear you roar from the pews, shaking your well manicured fist at my teasing jocularity!

Perhaps. I merely point you to the irony of your indignation.

One cannot simply say that context defines our lives, and thus "...let he who is without sin throw the first stone..." Judge me not kind sir, your opinion is of no proper context for my life. But I beg to differ most sharply.

Either I am a fool for saying this, or we are all in need of shaping up. Either murder is murder, or the human race is in need of a redefinition of what everything is.

How does context fix atrocity in another culture? If that man's conscience is not pricked, mine is certainly outraged.

A murder is a murder, a spade is a spade, and apples are apples, no matter where one is from. Context does not save us, it only obfuscates the truth of the situation. Let us call our apples apples, our murderers murderers, and our sins sins.

Let me not hide behind context. Let the Judge of the Earth, who is just, see me for who I am, and by His infinite Grace, shower me with His Love.

Oh what dreams have lain down to shatter...

In the end, I find myself at the beginning. But the beginning of what? A lonely view from the bottom of a well? Perhaps.

Or maybe the beginning of grasping wisdom. Eternal and sunshine bright, wisdom that permeates all of life and the universe. Wisdom that knows all this, but stands free from it.

At the end, I find my beginning. Or so I think. A beginning of long hours, filled with futile effort, that bounce back from my hope in pathetic flabbiness, a half-filled longing for security. A beginning of toil so it seems.

At the end of my rope, I find a new dawn. A dawn of not quite the same dreams, and desires. A glow of support surrounds me, but can do no more than lift up my spirits, and hope for a better day tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow holds something new. Something more new than disappointment.

Let this be a lesson then. Things could always have been done to prevent this, but your body must accept the here and now, else we are dreamers without the will to wake up and live our dreams.