Weary

“I suppose there will be better times”, he said, as he stepped down from what was left from a porch, weathered down after countless bouts of all sorts of weather. Right now, the clouds were as dark as the threat of a sudden downpour, but, as if a great, divine hand was mercifully holding it off, all that reached the monk’s head were faint drops from a dying drizzle.

 
 
He would wake up every morning, and sometimes, as his conscience would lead him, he would force himself out of bed in the middle of the night, just to make sure he spends half an hour in that spot. Each and every time he would wonder why he was there. He never really questioned it, it was just part of his daily routine, a ritual that in a sense was critical in defining his existence. For he believed that after an accepted  countless returns to that exact same spot, he would finally know why he kept going there…. The more he went there, the more he wanted to go…
 
 
There were actually many reasons for him not to go. The journey he took to get there was not always very pleasant – in fact, he could not even remember the last time he found it pleasant. For if he wasn’t hindered by heavy rain or the baking sun, he would be held up by highwaymen, or other people who thought their purposes were more important imposed their own wills upon him.
 
 
The walk home, despite it being just as hazardous, was not as laden with misery as the trip to the spot. The mere fact that he was walking towards somewhere he knew he belonged in was enough for him to shrug off anything that came in his way. There was hope, and this hope was all that kept him from dropping off to the other side, as he was walking the tightrope that defined if he would endure, or give in to hatred – hatred that came from selfishness and total disregard for anyone else.
 
 
This hope did not really give him much reason to smile, as lately he’d been realizing the rationality behind this daily ritual of his – and it is only called a ritual because of the presence of a desire for purpose, and lately, the advantages are outweighed by the disadvantages. It was as if he lacked something, that his sense of purpose which he thought was enough was now losing its personal value. Everything else was losing value, or lost.
 
 
He repeated himself.
 
 
“I suppose there will be better times.”
 
 
When will they come?
 


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