Goodness

Goodness in a man comes in measures and portions. Each ounce a piecemeal attempt to balance his actions and deeds. What goodness apportioned him he loves till he can love it no more. And when love of it is lost he becomes an empty container, a vessel seeking a power of equal worth. But how can he gauge worth in something when he himself is bereft of all that is worthy? Yes, goodness is poured into a man, and he sups of himself because it is all that he has, in truth. In truth goodness—to be good—is so easily stolen, or so easily squandered. I would give away all my goodness just to feel nothing of its grace, to feel nothing of its guilt. Goodness becomes in a man a curse of his own making. Goodness becomes in a man a meaningless plaque and a bespoke commemoration so self-exalted that its ideal is a joke. Show me a man's goodness and I will show you a carafe that can never be filled.