My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Complete Lives
We have had continuous cycles of life since life began, thousands and thousands of lives being lived, each complete no matter what it may have lacked. However full or empty, and no matter the satisfaction of happiness it contained, it was always life and always complete, with a beginning and end, and a middle filled with striving and wishing and as much hope as circumstances could sustain. They cycles continue, sometimes drawing from earlier ones, sometimes scorning them, but always there is the cycle cycling around itself as life remains the constant, no matter what the circumstances might provide.
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