Disciplined with life’s goals, but lauding the journey the more important.

Goals, focused and carefully chosen: the way rigidly planned and marked: milestoned and measured.

Socially supported, to soothe wounded hands and lift weary feet; justified pleasures in righteous social schadenfreude, as goads to keep and help deviants in their Chosen Ways.

So much fear in the whims of the seductive winds: shunning strange shores, sallying strong and bold, with sendoffs and fanfare, into the wilderness, just beyond your garden’s walls.

We cannot see what we cannot see. As truths are inaccessible to reasons, so wisdom, unsearchable. And who knows if the unknowable fickle winds is for or against us.

When the wind blows, persistent, strong and consistent, even to the Moon is without doubt. Then the winds died.

Your boat absolutely still, your sail limp and lifeless; not a ripple from horizon to horizon, not a sympathetic cloud in the brazen blue sky. The food’s out, the water’s low, a day or two, at most.

Sun shines impartial with no fear nor favor, as blindfolded Justice dispensing justice. Nights, frigidly cold, and time ceased.

The journey will always be: goal or no goals, socially supported or as a lone nomad: the wind blows, always and irresistibly, never futile. Walking in fear and trembling the only wise, for all else, futility.