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It is not enough that he was at a loss for an adequate description of the life he was living.  He had to live it as well.  He longed to write of natural beauty and spiritual truths and ecstasies, but in the midst of physical deterioration and mortal deprivations, the task was too much to contemplate.

He did see and contemplate such  that would commend a more optimistic outlook but they were immediately overwhelmed and overshadowed by loss and pain.


Why not just put it down and let any divine inspiration make of it what it would?  Why be a Russian novelist all the time when Idealism still longed to burn within him?  Indeed, why not?

So he determined to try.  He thought of the beauty of the mountains which surrounded him so close that he looked up and not outward to see their peaks and ridges.  The greenness of the tree covered slopes impressed him with momentary ease and quietness.  The young women who moved about on the sidewalks and in the store aisles made him feel that he was 20 years younger as he appreciated the feminine beauty in its artistic qualities as well as the temperature rising carnal desires that still existed deep within his battered heart and weakened libido.  He felt vital without an outlet, but grateful for the vitality.

He struggled with his faith in his Creator, but it seemed now that such struggles were not only his lot but the desire of the Creator in the first place.  So, instead of defeating him it served to buoy him up as a duty and he marveled not only in the mysteries it continually presented but also at the love of such Creation that would allow him to witness and participate in its unfolding.  “Oy Vey,” indeed!

And then he sat down at a keyboard and tried to put it into words.

Here, he faltered.  For once again, as he strove in the material world to express what burned within his breast, the material world kept interjecting with urgent demands that his vessel was weak and perhaps not suited to the task.


It Can’t Be So!

His spirit and mind rebels.

There must be more.  There must be more I can do to express the joys and loves and beauties that surround me

But he is stymied.  His body fails, his heart breaks for want of fulfillment, and his mind casts about in half lit rooms in search for substance upon which to rest.

Tell me, constant reader, so that I might tell him who is truly at a loss for understanding.  Is it enough that the urge to serve remains without the ability?  To what end does an unquenchable thirst struggle?  Is this to be continued?