I’m tired. I am in the position of the lesser, forcing myself up stream. But before I go into resting and sleeping this morning, I have made it my will to write one last writing, in the same way that one breaths at least once before death. But instead, I do one last expression of myself, before myself lays down, and it is not at all tragic. But still, it is about the little deaths each day which may lead up to the final downfall.
I shall write about the end of hate.
Hate has much in common with frustration, for each of them are maddening, each of them are struggling, each of them are irritated, each of them are fighting, each of them are destroying, and each of them come soon after a defect. Hate comes down and sets its blade in the right-hand of passion, because passion hath said: “Look here, the contemptible, fore it has become my obstacle.” Therein, the obstacle is the hated. The obstruction and the suppression, these are hated most, when put into a sensitive or a sacred place. And so, hate rises up highest towards ones enemy. Hate riseth up taller than the enemy, as it wishes to stomp the enemy flat, and paveth the way forwards, beyond the obstruction. The opposite, the enemy: this is the greatest negation, the greatest suppression. And so, hate is the momentum meant to smash obstruction.
But wait, and just with a flicker of they eye, take note: There are things which do not block the road, but they instead suck the fuel out of the car, and these are even greater obstructions, because these make even the postponement eternal. But depression, pity, defeatism, and terror are not hated. They are seen as uncrushable, unbeatable, and are out of hates reach. These bare down upon man with even greater hellishness than hate would, for man has lost more to his sloth and his to his waste than he has lost to his thief and his enemy.
Take hold of the hateful blade, calm its fire so that it does not burn up all of thy fuel, and then merely cut any tubing which draineth the blood of you. This, my friends, is self-preservation, requiring more effort and more energy than self-defense. It requireth the virtue of a mother, and not the glory of a warrior. It requires time, not sparse outburst. Keep watch of the explosion, and see how it merely resists gravity for a few seconds, and then the wreckage comes back down. But a bird flies with short fluttering, a light heart, a light body and a perpetual song of happiness. It also does soar higher than dibris of a powerful bomb; it does not shock, and of-course, it lives far better, far longer, far more efficiently. In this case alone, patience in a minor degree is more mighty than intolerance of the absolute degree, for life does not live by brute force, but by stable process.
A virtuous mother not hateth or abuse her child. For hunger, she gives food, and not a beating. Therein, hate none of thy hungers, hate none of thy own tears; bare instead the invisible glory of patience. Vast is hate, because vast also is unfaced defect. It is seen throughout all the land as shame, and as the overly impressive. A man does not hate or fear that which doest not wound him. But if it should so happen to make him hateful or afraid, therein, HE IS ALREADY INJURED BEFORE THE STRIKE.
Hate and frustrations, and even the terror or the fear – these are each merely the symptom. Fortitude would have not caused these. Fullness would not have caused these. They crash only because they fall down. They break only because they are catastrophe. In the same way that vomiting is a sign of bad food, anger is only a sign of bad circumstance, and not the existence of enemies.
Beholdeth man, to him even a corpse may be frightening… Even the defeated, the broken, the lost and the dead have sparked both fear and rage in the observer, because he himself is obstructed. Most likely, that obstruction is not a direct blockage, but instead, it is an emptiness and a lacking. One cannot fly because ones wings have been smashed, or the muscles have ran out of fuel, but gravity is not wicked, even if it is also stopping thy desired flights. Phenomenon and circumstance are not the enemy, but instead, they are the signs and the reminders of condition.
The virtuous mother is much like the true doctor, whom heal only with gentle and gradual support. He heals via feeding, cleaning, in heed and in note. So also, self-empowerment, self-cleaning and self-awareness are the cures. Though the sick are the problems and the responsibilities of the doctor, the true doctor does not hate them for being sick. In this same way, though the people around one are thy problem and thy difficulty, their failure and their sick, sick degeneration does not need hate poured out upon it. Instead, the remedy would be a solid and refined focus upon re-empowering, re-fueling and re-balancing the vehicle. An enemy is rare. A failure is daily. And a hunger too is daily. Therein with reason, anger would become rare, and constructive actuations would become daily, in one whom has replaced failures with successions.
Hate comes up in mild doses, or in large bursts, but each time, it is destructive. It may even be watered-down so greatly that it becomes a passive-aggressive gradualism, which only erodes indirectly. It is still disease. It is still contagious. It is still growing at the destruction of its own home. Deaths shall never cure it. Instead, the malformed need fulfillment of form. Such disease only ends where constant healing begins.