On Watching "Love Song For Bobby Long"

The frailty of life. The inevitability of death. The incomprehensibility of

being. The essence of self distilled by the heat of living. This is our journey
and our fleeting moment. The vapor rises in its prime. Quickly cooling, it
looses its evanescence, condensing on the cool palette of reality. We seek
the means to keep the embers alive which give life meaning. Mere
mechanical machinations, the mundane matters of everyday, will not suffice.
The art, the poetic, and the soul of life must be realized, else life becomes a
clockwork, its seconds determined, foreknown, and numbered. Life is frail,
and frailty despised. Not because of its weakness, but because of its self
imposed limitations. Man is meant to soar above the circumstances of his
physical being, for man is not innately physical, but rather what makes him
uniquely human is his unbounded capacity for being. Such limitless
potential must be trained up in the way it should go. Like an arbor which
bears great promise, its fruits can only be realized when it is trimmed, as
painful as that trimming may sometimes be. The heat of life provides such
husbanding, the canes carefully pruned in preparation of the harvest. May
we always be aware of the sanctity of life. May we always be consumed
with its living to the fullest. May we always be hopeful that this potential
can be realized.