We’re like the trees and our feelings are like the weather. We don’t live for the summer’s splendor nor do we shun the naked winters. The plants that only live to bask in the sun wither when it becomes distant. Not only do they die but they leave no trace of ever having existed. They bear no fruit, provide no shade, give no lasting benefit but for a moment’s awe.
To triumph isn’t to overcome the dreaded. It’s to be in harmony with it, and more importantly to understand the wisdom of the divine will that created it. It’s to find a place in the cosmic cycles and spin as the momentum dictates, and rest when stillness falls. It’s to hold on to the meaning of any given moment.