15 days later

How far should the perpetrator be blamed for the crime? My first instinct has always been a violent reproach to the criminal, and to come forward in defense of the victim. My view was challenged recently when I found that all too often, the so-called victim is overzealous in throwing themselves under the bus. What use is there in reprimanding a perpetrator who only gives people what they want? What is the point of protecting those that wish for their own destruction?

Indeed the process of discernment can be difficult from any side of this circumstance. The victim might fail to identify their own needs and desires. The criminal may mislead the pure-hearted into self-destruction And the protector might fail to help either one without dirtying their own hands. Are the tools of the righteous any different from those of the wicked? The only hope I see must lie in courageous transparency and sincere communication. 

On another note, I have begun to study the art of creating content. How many times, I wonder, will I rebrand myself as I figure out new things that change my way of thinking? How many times would I expect to be taken seriously by people who witness this process? Indeed my journey is a messy one wrought by countless detours and missteps, yet I cannot imagine another that I could adore so deeply.

While my failures, regrets, anxieties, and achievements continue to stack up in the background, I focus on nothing more than losing myself fully in the doing as I gain better modes of execution. The thought of working to create this path alone and eventually serving as a beacon of light to those in the vicinity makes me giddy with excitement. I notice now that I have transitioned from a seeker to a finder. Where once I was thinking and consuming, now I am doing and creating. Where first I would listen to everyone without reservation in hopes of filling myself up fully, now, I wish to be in silence with my own answers, no longer internally reacting to those around me.

Occasionally I feel a sense of concerning responsibility, perhaps the dear doesn't know any better, I should try to make sure they understand how I see their way. And I try my best to communicate. Yet I no longer doubt myself nearly as much when faced with ways differing from my own. I have walked the path enough that I can see what lies beyond me. I see a vast valley headed deep into the woods and it excites me like nothing else before. What lies beyond the next hill I do not know, but for now, I can afford to go on my own. 

Such is the way of the wanderer who is blessed with existence. Cherished by the world and held deep in that almighty bosom. What of the countless rest I wonder? The deprived beasts so starved by hunger. While I refuse to shrug it off as karma, mutually assured destruction is not my dharma. I would hate to leave them in their wicked plights, to live in a cave so far out of sight. Yet the road to hell is paved with good intentions, only through action one finds repentance. The weak may have no qualms worth noting, a fact that stands without corroding. Only true strength may grant a righteous fury, uncontested by any judge or jury. 

So begins the pursuit of power, which starts with light yet ends with fire. On that road, the names forgotten faces morphed, and souls so rotten. To press on forth one has to be empty, shed their weight, and brace their bones. When faced with the equalizer, in the end, did any of it matter? What was the point of starting the journey? If by the end you step on corpses. All I know is strength speaks volumes, the meek are left behind, forgotten. So be strong I shall at no cost of life. And fill my heart, come what might.

Let the world fall deaf to my own silent fury, falling behind like all that's weary. You are what you do, not who you are inside. The effect on the world that's plain in sight. Try and fail and struggle if you must, at least your soul never turned to rust. For when the clock does strike midnight, you'll sleep in peace and free from fright.