But it is an innate feeling, something intuitive, something that would be with you always.

As you got older it begins to fit better.  You no longer find the need to look for reasons.  And the old reasons of earlier times, times when you might have expected a normal happy life in keeping with appearances, fade with increasing rapidity and duration.  You see when you think of the old girlfriend of should have would have and could have you know now, you know better, it's not going to last, having lost the desire, seen clearly the nature of reality, seen the nature of your own moods...

Time, time passing, aging, the things that come to pass concerning family, these do the job of bending down your shoulders in a pensive way as you go about your errands.  And all such things are only the match for the way you are.

In your maturity, one just gets comfortable.  You can begin to appreciate the quiet.  You regain the understanding toward your own qualities of mood as that which is the savor of the salt of the earth.  It becomes a comfort, a reflection of a better understanding of self.  And you can really start to live without envy, without wanting the things of other people's lives.

We are as unique into each other as all the wide variety of plants and animals of all the earth.  Our similarity is always there, being in God's image, and susceptible to God's laws of nature and the spirit.  But one life of the human being is vastly different from any man-made pattern or cultural style, vastly different from the Madison Avenue-generated catalog of happy endeavors, of shining attractiveness.  Those are all insufficient, the sexy images of advertising culture, of selling the being of God what she nor he needs.  (Catholicism can only attempt to keep up with such, to have energy equal to the negations of humanity.)  To expect one to be, to appear, "normal" by such a standard is too much to impose upon the natural health of a person living appropriately to humble divine image.


There is always that, not knowing what to write, not knowing what to say, not knowing where to even begin, for the writer.  No writer is immune from this potentially depressing condition, and grows into understanding it.  The writer, great or not, is not as bound to the mental realm of dualistic thinking, beyond masculine or feminine, beyond success or failure, good and bad, taking from the Buddha in this endeavor.