episteme seauton

I've lost the urge to write. Feeling all angsty. Thoughts swirling in convolution. They call it emotional constipation, I think. But I don't know why. Things couldn't be better. Opportunities to excel abound. But something is missing. I feel like I'm stretching myself out too thin. I'm good at what I do, in their individual spheres of requisites. But I'm not great at them - yet. I think that's it. An eagle soars when a lesser creature would have to perpetually flap its wings to stay aloft. Its nature demands that it master its element. Being merely adequate at it throws it off equilibrium. One either masters his circumstances or lets it master him. My greatest fear in life has always been being merely adequate - mediocre. Good is the enemy of great - another maxim that has had maximum influence on my personal cosmology. "Good" - contentment - is the deadweight that pulls one into the quotidian mire of spiritual inertia. The spirit dies if it doesn't soar. There is no such thing as spiritual stagnation. The law of gravity dictates it. Atrophy occurs in the absence of growth. Nature is never neutral. This then is what's happening to me now. (Writing truly is epistemic.) What is the cure for this spiritual ennui? Be great at what I do. Never settle for anything less. It will require sweat. And tears. And stress. But an eagle cannot expect to soar and not encounter the turbulence inherent in its chosen environment as well. But with every bout of turbulence, his wings become stronger. Men do not choose to be great. Greatness finds him, and he merely accepts. Today, I do too. For that is who I am.