Purpose does not exist to mute out the long drawing hoe from the earth of ones soul. Purpose is not merely the poking stick turning over ashy wood from smouldering the fire in the hearth of ones heart. One can lose sight of excellence when the gnawing wood worms of suffering ceases as one rides the blissful high into another storm. Then nights of sleepless wrestling, fighting for the meaning of this unexplainable, but tonic numbing, pain into the early part of dawn; rising with energy enough for bodily functions, but useful to none.

Do not forget that existence comes with a price. The currency of existence is in the valuable resource time. Much like money, time is not infinite, and one is not limitless.
Pick up the hoe in the field of your heart and strike the fire in the hearth of your soul. The work is plentiful, purposeful, and ready. The earth you wish to cultivate around you, is the element for reviving dead soil, bacteria rich! Though you have but a handful of health, it is enough to start with. Begin where you are, and everyday begin.

A day well used appears to have fit in itself a week of time. A week well used seems to have stretched time longer than he ought to have. He who is faithful with little is given more. But how many days are spent wishing one had not wasted their youth? So late into their life they fail to see the treasury of wisdom that the universal principle found absent in hindsight makes apparent in the moment of their awakening. Not everyone has the chance to live a normal, happy life, but all have the opportunity if they can grasp it somehow, to drink deeply from the well of the wisdom presented to them. In the moment of revealing, they are presented a pool of inner healing, a pool of insight, a portal into the garden of transformation to begin living again. As a result of ones living rightly they invest in the spiritual realm equity which in the physical realm translates into authority.

In my minds eye, I trace my steps throughout the place I work. The halls are littered by doors that swallows one up like the gentle smiles of game carnival hosts. Its one big noise. Though I enter into my work space all the options disappear and Im alone like a dead tree’s shadow in the desert. Those too trying to make a living appear muted, Im the only voice I hear, i say, welcome. It is though they have come from the desert, thirsty, in need of shade in my tent, as I offer them water at premium, and they gladly turn over their pockets for the contents in the cup.
There is nothing wrong with my business, how else will I pay for my bills if I do not swallow my pride? Though this business won’t stand forever, the resovuior will dry up, but I shall be long gone. Though daily my steps leave invisible marks on the ground, I have grooved in mind the steps that I will take having traced it out a thousand times. Thirsty bystanders and passerbys will say, I don’t want the contents, I want the cup. Is everyone stimulated by the surface of things? So as I give them the surface they will like in quicksand, or one struggling in mud find there a depth that brings them deeper into the cavern of their existence. Finding themselves inside the belly of their cup, floating or drowning in the contents they have stored over many inner years.


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