Of Courage and Greatness
Courage is something that is reflected and reciprocated, and is by no means, inherent. When we are ordinary, we are morally ample and when we are surreal, we are audacious. The need for temerity is amplified when we're bound to be representing it and it is lessened when it can be done without. Succinctly, it is material.
Courage is the only haven where vanity can cower in its utter dependence. A man's individuality can only suffer a present, without therefore yielding to a past, through a hard, conscientious and well mannered proportion of 'courage' in its vigor. It is convincing because it is worldly. It is innocuous because it provides merely. It is courage because there is no surrogate. It is perfect.
If, peradventure, a man is subtracted of this corporeal courage, if his amorphous vanity is evicted, if his surrealism is crushed, and then, we unleash the world on him - he would be lost. He would also eventually die, encumbered by the knowledge of an ethical nudity; but more significantly, he would be lost.
There is a righteous inner bearing that essentially, every man as a human being, lacks and every man as a man, is brilliantly deficient of. This is true courage. And it is imperfect. No one can acquire too much from a soul who has a simple estimate to bestow. Similarly, no one can acquire too much of courage when it, itself, is rudimentary. There is neither more to situate nor to say.
In time, when consequences surface, there is a moment, a burgeoning tear in existence, when our shoddy humanness and the truest test of valor is argued of. It impugns courage. When a man can simply say 'yes', without levying the condemnation and yet denoting 'yes' in the respect of the veracity and not of motive; when a being can be altruistic not for benevolence or benignity but just for not being selfish; when a man can be trivial and demand nothing more in its uniqueness; when a supreme being wavers adamantly in confrontation and has scarcely more to render; when the sport is gentle pleasure and no pleasure is a gentle sport; when nothing, absolutely nothing is beyond today and the capability of the succeeding second; when terms suffuse, saturate and are conclusively, abandoned at the hilt, to abet a man to deal with realism in its coarse primitiveness; when the challenge is not to vanquish the native soul but to subjugate the person; when good and bad are uttered from an unbiased lip that comprises no inequity - it incites the only portents of true courage. The garnered rhythm of imperfection.
The road that leads us and simultaneously possesses us of our virtues, also scurries past our crimes. When we're adamant to pursue our principality in the guise of our severe element, we challenge the attitude of nature, that condemns us in prospect and we're penitent of not our animosity but our innocence. Our propensity to be secured to just the morals and ethnic etiquette is what sees us to our peril, for severity asserts no kings, just brutes. When we're self-righteous, we're invisible for it is a desultory world; and when we're invisible, by time and act, slowly and subtly, we part into a crowded handful of idealists that are meant to be churned and crushed in a grating dynamism. Either serves as a consequence for just being in the organ of one's virtues.
The sin is not to be human but to act human. To be human is to have virtues that exalt and distinguish man. To act human is to present these virtues to the on-looking world and be at the mercy of their contemplation. They decide whether you befit the standard of what they think is ideal or not. And eternally, a man who contains virtues that exploit his realism against the ordinary is not considered for the rigid society that is condemned in the hearts and souls of men with stolid mindsets and hard, onerous determinations. The man is seen to moral death with the blame on his forehead of endeavoring to be self-reliant and a philosopher in ever-scared times when the need is to prevent a culture and a mannerism. The virtuous man is slaughtered keenly by the hands of these lesser humans, these men. His ego is deteriorated and throttled until he, himself, surrenders to being ordinary, to being man.
We need a subjective hero for the humankind, a simple savior posed against a perpetual question: Who is the enemy, exactly? A man, who would neither fail nor succeed, instead be content and fulfilled to the extent of his requirements. Alas, a man, who would neither do penance for his virtues nor let them be used as the tools of his destruction.
About The Author
My name is Tushar Jain. I am an author. That's pretty much all to know.
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