One of the great courages in life, if not the greatest courage, is being willing to burn your self.
You see, everyone says they like change, they want change, but when it comes down to it, no one is willing to change.
Of course they aren’t. Burning hurts, and it’s not a physical transformation that you can reverse, like that of water, but a chemical transformation, one that cannot be undone, like that of fire.
We say we want greatness, a life worth telling others about, something to go down in history. But, we haggle with life, we’re not willing to give up anything for it.
Money. Time. Energy. People. Our social image. Net-f*cking-flix after dinner.
No, we want the good stuff. We’ve been sold that we deserve it. Sorry, but that’s not true. Everyone deserves to be happy, but happiness is not what they told you. Money is just a surrogate for it. Fame and social status are even poorer substitutes for it than money.
Happiness is a life worth living.
I participated in a Tea Ceremony today, and the Tea Master and I talked about life and work. He quit his career as a stockbroker in Tokyo and came back to Nara to dedicate himself to tea and the Japanese culture. We got to discuss how shops here are open every day of the year, and I asked if that’s not working too much.
No, he said, working as a stockbroker five days per week was too much. I only had money; now I have purpose. We here love our work. What kills you is work done without heart.
Prometheus, who stole the fire from the gods, wanted Humans to have Hubris. He’s calling you now.
What will you burn?
The Self Slaved
Patrick Kavanagh
Me I will throw away
Me sufficient for the day
The sticky self that clings
Adhesions on the wings
To love and adventure
To go on the grand tour
A man must be free
From self-necessity
See over there
A created splendour
Made by one individual
From things residual
With all the various
Qualities hilarious
Of what
Hitherto was not:
A November mood
As by one man understood;
Familiar, an old custom
Leaves falling, a white frosting
Bringing a sanguine dream
A new beginning with an old theme
Throw away thy sloth
Self, carry off my wrath
With its self-righteous
Satirising blotches
No self, no self-exposure
The weakness of the proser
But undefeatable
By means of the beatable
I will have love, have love
From anything made of
And a life with a shapely form
With gaiety and charm
And capable of receiving
With grace the grace of living
And wild moments too
Self when freed from you.
Prometheus calls me: Son,
We’ll both go off together
In this delightful weather.