Faces crumpled with confusion. Sometimes bent, sometimes upright. Sometimes faltering, letting out a sigh. Not awkward, not gloomy. Awkwardness is the enemy. The heat and screams commonly burn the head even though the back is frail. Age may be captivating, but unerring determination clings to it tightly.
While God is testing him. Not hated, betrayed, let alone left aside. God is fair to him, no cruel or tyrant. Fate, including everything, was shared equally. There was no remorse, no regret, and all was lost. It was just that the portion of happiness in destiny was thin, as thin as the crumpled sheets in the pocket of his tattered pants.
Such is life; it must be fought, even if it means being held captive. Turmoil, turmoil, and struggles are played out in human episodes. Episodes that aren't played out would be odd. It's too beautiful to just lament and complain. Complaining isn't forbidden; it's the natural state of being. God gives life, not demands greed.
Greed is the enemy of God, and even more so of humanity. Thus, history records every ancient trail destroyed and destroyed by greed. It's hard to draw near, happiness is far away, and good fortune is confinedāsuch is the law of greed.
The middle-aged figure walked again. He didn't move. The streets were crowded with people. His gaze was cloudy on the walls of the mansions. He didn't move. Occasionally, he rummaged through the trash cans in the courtyard. He saw scattered cans. He didn't pick them up immediately, but sniffed them slowly. Rancid stinging his chest cavity.
The iron stick was clenched tightly. It was his foothold. Sometimes it was a source of strength, sometimes it eased his fatigue. Now he realized that strength wasn't eternal. Nor were its words as strong as his. He simply consoled himself, like a stick. "magic" Prophet Musa as a support and also able to part the sea.
His face contorted even more, swallowed by fate. But he didn't move. He threw back the sack on his shoulders. The other half was cramped. The rancid cans were thrown in a heap. Satisfaction circled his tired gaze. His desire didn't give up. Just like parasite steadfastly embracing host patience.
In his mind, a steadfast parasite was firmly embedded, for the sake of a paradoxical hope. A hope that had once nourished his youthful soul. Now, that hope no longer resonated. It had been buried deep within. The one time he tried to fight with his hope, he was cut down, crumpled like a victim of a samuai.
Slowly he got up, screaming and struggling. But fell back. After the tragedy of the fierce fight, he crossed his arms and made peace. Hope is too strong to be overthrown. He must train hard. Conquering hope is complicated, if not reconciled. That's the message he forgot. Peace is a true knight. That's how to kill the enemy of hope.
Life is the art of resisting adversity. Don't give up. Fatigue and weariness tend to break your life's credo. If you can, clash and break through the frailties with chivalry.
"Throw away your scruffy faces!" the knight shouted, his staff clutched to his chest.
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