It is a tough thing, to make something out of this life before you die.
A prayer from the Isha Upanishad reads, "Let not the thread of my song be cut while I sing. And let not my work end before its fulfillment."
It is these words I turn to when I struggle with the life of writing. When I can't find anyone who believes in what I want to write, what I need to write...when I can't break through to the next level, when I feel that I'll be struggling forever. When I don't have the heart for the struggle itself or the vision to see a light in the distance.
It is these moments in which I wonder how much strength I truly possess. It would be very easy for me now to withdraw entirely, to sleep--to die a little--especially in this time of year when sickness, darkness, and death visit us so often.
Two friends are about to lose parents. I cannot give them the compassion they need and deserve. I am stuck in my own hell, this spiral that gets worse the more you think about it and the more it pulls you in, the faster you go down.
I have support. I have family. I have friends. I have my health. But the mind and the heart are their own beings, and they undercut everything else whenever they wish.