Each for himself gathered up
The cherished purposes of life
Its aims and ambitions
Its dearest affections
And flung all with life itself
Into the scale of battle
To fight is to cherish life itself, in a not-so-obvious romantic manner. It’s not mushy, but it is romantic.
Every question that makes a finger reluctant on a willing trigger is a question about the purpose of life itself. Each doubt that makes a step hesitant towards the once-accepted belief is doubt on the premise that defined the purpose. The zombie-like wanderings in the darkest recesses of our minds are just a search – not for the purpose – but the premise and the ‘cause’.
Motivation is like a re-run of your favourite soap or sitcom – you see it only because you faintly recall what made you like it. And we look for motivation to the extent that we buy DVD box sets of these sitcoms and soaps.
We try running it over and over again; the truth of it – knowing as much as we do what it meant in the first place – hoping that we will feel the same eagerness and excitement.
It has been a little over five years since I lost the one icon that I cherished the most: for the person who gave it to me; for the unspoken reason of what it was meant to be; for what was engraved on it:
In war, resolution
In defeat, defiance
In victory, magnanimity