It is a curious thing, this modern habit of drifting. Men and women float through their days like autumn leaves upon a river, content to be carried where the current wills, heedless of the shore or the rocks ahead. They speak of luck, of chance, of the winds of fortune, as if life were some great lottery in which their only duty is to clutch their ticket and hope for a happy draw. But what a paltry way to live! A man who drifts is no more alive than a stone that has come loose from the mountain and tumbles where it may.
The wise man, if he is wise at all, plants his feet and declares: Here, and no further! He does not leave his course to the whims of the tide but sets his sail with purpose, determined to arrive where he intends. And the great secret—one which most people pass their whole lives without learning—is that a life without commitment is no life at all, but a sort of slow and dreary perishing.
To live is to take a stand, to fix one’s mind and heart upon something worthy and refuse to be shaken loose. Whether it be a cause, a craft, a people, or a single soul, the act of binding oneself to something greater than one’s own fleeting whims is the only means by which a man may say, at the end, I was here, and it mattered.
Most men do not understand the value of this. They think that to drift is to be free, that to commit is to be bound. But they mistake the rope for the prison. A man tethered to a great ship does not sink but is carried across the sea. A climber fastened to his rope does not fall but reaches the summit. So it is with those who bind themselves to an idea, a purpose, a fellow traveler on the road of life. They are not shackled; they are anchored.
But what shall a man commit himself to? Here is a question worth more than a barrel of gold, for to fix one’s heart upon a foolish thing is worse than to have no commitment at all. I have seen men devote themselves to gathering coins, only to leave them behind in a dusty room when Death came knocking. I have seen others give their souls to the approval of the crowd, which is worth less than the chatter of sparrows, for it is silent when the wind changes. If a man is to bind himself, let him do so to something that will outlast him—an idea, a labor, or a love that will not wither in the sun.
Some will say, “But what of ease? What of pleasure?” To them, I say: The man who builds a house does not lament that his hands are calloused, nor does the poet grieve that he spent his days in thought. The labor itself is the reward. To love something deeply, to give oneself over to it without hesitation or retreat—this is not suffering, but the very essence of being alive. The bird does not complain of the wind that lifts its wings; the river does not protest the course it has carved through the land.
If you would live—not merely exist, but truly live—then plant your feet. Make an oath, and keep it. Find a cause, a work, a person to whom you can say: Here is my heart, and I will not take it back. Do not be among those who wait for purpose to knock upon their door, for it is a guest who arrives only where it is expected. The world is full of those who drift; be among those who hold fast.
For in the end, when the tally is taken, when the account of a life is measured not in years but in meaning, it will not be the aimless wanderer who is remembered, but the one who stood firm and declared, I was here, and I did not waver.
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