Throughout the struggle.

Why is it that no matter how hard I try, I never seem to be able to stop hurting the people that I say I love the most? I can struggle to avoid the big mistakes only to wallow into some lesser version. Why? What is the point? If I am constantly going to opt for mistakes, why try at all? 

I yell at my kids, get huffy with my wife, am rude to a story clerk or just kick the dog. Doing all of these things would seem to point to an unresolved issue somewhere. Might be my parents dumped me on my head, could be that I was held too much or not enough. My father was Polish and as everyone knows the Polish people are bland and helpless... (Just a joke) 

I see a larger than me and my family struggle that continues to rage on. I see people are struggling to become. Struggling to become more loving, more giving, more caring and more forgiving. Yet these same people stumble along with me. Is this evidence of birds of a feather? Are there groups of people who are able to be free from these types of behaviors and never make these kinds of mistakes?  

Is it the struggle that unites us? What if the divide is simply those of us who refuse to believe it has to be this way or that we are doomed to these tendencies verses those who are resined to remain the way they are? If that is true than help me to keep on struggling. 

I think Dylan Thomas said it better.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. 

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.