Would You Like Some Cheese With That Whine?
I have American, though I don't know how they pair.
If you have time to whine and complain about something then you have the time to do something about it.
Wine and Cheese
You carry a burden, my child—I see it in your step, in the faint tremor before your words alight, in that brief, betraying quiver when the world resists you. Do not think I have not noticed.
Life grinds us all; its wheel turns with an indifference that shatters both the mighty and the meek. But hear me: no salvation lies in complaint. Lamentation is a false balm, a sweet poison that dulls the spirit even as it festers within.
To whine—to cast your anguish to the wind like chaff—is to surrender your strength. Each breath spent on grievance is a morsel stolen from your will; each sigh etches weakness into the heart. The world, you see, is deaf to such wailing.
It is not moved by the cries of the broken; it crushes them all the same. History has no ears for the sobbing man—it remembers only those who stood, those who acted, those who bore their suffering like a cross and staggered forward nonetheless.
You might say, “But I speak merely to be heard! I wish only for my pain to be known!” And I would ask: What comes of that? Does your soul grow steel from the telling? Do you rise renewed from the ashes of your agony? Or does your voice merely dissipate into the void, leaving you colder, weaker—less than before?
No. I tell you this—no one is coming. There will be no hand to lift you from the mire. No gentle voice will soothe you. We are all alone, you and I—each soul condemned to its own Golgotha. Your choice is this: rise, or rot.
Let me remind you of those who came before us—men and women ground beneath the boot of history, flung into the frozen jaws of Siberia, stripped of everything but breath and the choice to endure. They did not survive through tears. They did not endure by begging the universe for mercy.
They clenched their jaws; they hardened their hearts. And when the morning frost burned their lungs, they stood once more, defying the abyss with every breath. In that defiance was life. In that refusal to whimper, dignity.
Whining—it is the coward's hymn. It pollutes the air around it, breeding weakness in others as well. One’s complaint becomes a chorus; soon, a whole generation sings the dirge of victimhood. And what is left? A society not of victors, but of shadows—writhing in self-pity, shriveling before hardship.
But suffering—ah, suffering is our birthright. It is the mark of existence. To suffer is to live; to live is to endure. You must meet suffering as a brother, embrace it, let it forge you. Each wound, each humiliation—these are the chisels that shape you. Without them, you remain unformed, a formless mass of potential. Through pain, you become.
So, I say this—if life has struck you, if it has torn from you what you cherished most—then bleed, but stand. Grieve, but act. If injustice binds you, then plot, then work, then sharpen yourself into a blade that will one day cut through it. But do not—do not—waste your breath on whimpers.
The world is pitiless, yes—but so must you be. Pity is a luxury for those who have conquered; for the rest, there is only the will to endure. Ask yourself now—when the test comes, when the walls close in—will you withstand it? Or will you sink to your knees and call out for a mercy that will never come?
Stand, or fall.
So listen, read, understand and absorb —let the words strike like flint upon your spirit, let them catch, let them blaze—because the night is long, but you are not finished.
Yes, the world is pitiless. Yes, the wheel grinds bone into dust, and the sky does not weep for you. But in you—something ancient stirs. A fire that predates the stars. A defiance older than the first grief.
I see you. You who have endured the breaking days, who have knelt beneath the weight of your own ruin and still raised your face to the dawn. That was no small thing. That was everything.
Do not believe the lie that you are alone. Each breath you take joins the chorus of those who staggered forward before you— the scarred, the bleeding, the unyielding. Their footsteps paved this path. Their hearts beat within yours.
No, no one is coming to save you. But you—you are coming. You are rising. Not because the world is kind, but because you are strong. Because the light you carry was never theirs to extinguish.
So rise now. Gather your wounds; they are your heraldry. Carry your sorrow; it is the proof you lived. Let the weight make you mighty. Let the storm shape you into thunder.
Rise—because this world will not break you. Rise—because you are more than your suffering. Rise—because the fire is yours, and it will light the way.
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I appreciated that. I go a different way, but I get it. “He hath shown thee oh man what is good. To do justly, to love mercy and to walk humbly before your God”
Do. Love. Walk.
Justice. Mercy. Humility.
Amen.
Hold your breath and let the barbell do the groaning!