“… and I place a nameless stone.”

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There’s more advice than there are readers in our cozy, if sometimes bitterly cold, little corner of the ‘net.

 

Such is the limited market of Truth.

 

But one thing I infrequently see mentioned, let alone stressed sufficiently, is this:

 

The importance of male friends (for men).

 

 

 

See, so much emphasis is placed upon self-improvement.

 

Accumulation of wealth.

 

Acquisition of “notches”.

 

That simply having people that understand you; can relate to you; can share your joys and sorrows and make the harrowing march we call existence meaningful, seems to get forgotten.

 

 

 

Conquests may be laudable.

 

But who wants to be the Lord of Ashes?

 

How sumptuous the meal eaten in solitude?

 

What value has gold that cannot be spent?

 

Few are the pleasures as great as the act of sharing them.

 

 

 

Seeking a woman with which to share all of this is short-sighted, at best.

 

Since, being the ultimate pragmatists, rarely are they able to fully grasp the meaning of such triumphs.

 

(Damn near unique, is the woman that can – let alone would – appreciate something for which she did not, herself, strive.)

 

 

 

Not to mention, as I have said before:

 

Getting a man to fall in love is akin to digging a hole in concrete.

 

Tough to do; tough to replicate.

 

While getting a woman to fall in love is akin to digging a hole in sand:

 

Easy to do; easy to replicate.

 

 

 

Understand, there are no female pallbearers.

 

[Corpses are of little utility to the living.]

 

So when you die—

 

It’s men that will carry you to the grave.

 

Silently.

 

Solemnly.

 

 

 

While women do as they will.

 

Free to weep or gossip.

 

Whichever whim strikes them, at the moment.

 

 

 

 

 

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