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.
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