mikevarley.com

On Self-Inflicted Marathons

What compels a man to endurance?
What drives him when inspiration sighs and all that remains is gear on gear determination? Smiling the smile of faded thoughts worn through, dressing the part because…well, it fits you. Slippers off, wingtips on, brush your teeth, wash your face, apply the looks of admiring interns to your neck and bosom, make the sign of the cross and leave your house. Go about your day above satisfaction, below excellence, trying not to let the aperture get you down.

I think education must be it, the magic formula for a better man. Education. All those years of working tirelessly on state sanitized testing inspired them to greater things. Or perhaps community buoyed them through lean years with reaffirming, social networking wall posts. Maybe warm family meals together in the same house, separated by three floors, two doors and a computer.

No. It lies truly in the soul, but not the kind issued with Baptism vestments. It’s the kind of thing roused by the actions of others, observing their Paraclete light up the sky. And they got their drive from forefather’s too, hence torches are passed in this manner. Its been well established since Adam left Eden all covered in Big Bang confusion.

An endless chain of protons joined through timeless night,
and you’re that newly minted one, furthering the fight.

[audio:http://www.mikevarley.com/old/words/MikeVarley.com On Self-Inflicted Marathons.mp3]