Exstract from a long poem called Whale mantle, within the collection of Seasores.
A man is capable of so much but often does so little. Too often he dies a death of a thousand inconsequential tasks. Every man knows something about himself that no other soul will, and it is this, that torments him, what drives him to drink, into self destruction, depression and sabotages relationships. Men pretend the ‘what he earns’ or the ‘what he believes in’ has some meaning.
Occasionally someone does slip through the net, achieving all that they were capable of. Westand there gazing at our brother or sister in wonder, we write books about them and remember their deeds in histories, but they were little different from you or I; they just made a leap of faith, with a little more guts, at the right time and had a little more luck, they just didn’t mind falling on their face as much as the rest of us.
Perhaps realising before it was too late, that the pointless activities filling our lives take up about as much time and effort to achieve, as the greater goals would, therefore between the two, it is easier to see that if this train is always going the same way, they might as well risk riding on the roof.