A man’s quarrel is with himself

I lay awake at night constantly trying to recover from those devastating blows. The scars have healed, but they run deep. Had we but a bit of luck. But man has no luck, he has only himself. Though the lines were straight I cannot help but wonder if they were.

Those few moments of relief were enough to stage yet another siege. Damn these forces, so seemingly against us. Though we kept these feelings to ourselves, they cannot help but rear their head every now and again.

Those endless labours are surely unjustifiable by our little reward.

I suppose a man is not what he gains, but what he endures.

We patch the sails, and we mend the raft.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;”

Perhaps desperation arrived too late, but how could we have known.

It was gone before it was.

Its short life-span should not diminish its significance. Within those momentary successes lay years of toiling and relentless labours. The list of failures is longer than you could know.

Throughout, as best we could, we remained.

I long for those difficulties. If only once more I could wrestle with them. I’d cherish those final moments even more, knowing how significant they would turn out to be. I’d be better prepared for the blood in the water.

“What will you do now if they come in the night? What can you do?

Fight them,” he says, “I’ll fight them until I die.”

And we did, until its premature end.

I do not blame the sharks, it’s in their nature.

They have no quarrel with me.

The weight of the shame, as we once again return with an empty catch, seems unbearable.

We carry it all the same.

We prepare for tomorrow, for the good work must continue. Perhaps there will those few who acknowledge the fight, perhaps even admire it.

The entire drama serves as our only reward and those events carry significance, regardless of their premature end.

I lay awake at night knowing there are other things, which now, require my resolve.