He sits and yearns for a thing he should not have. For something beneath himself.

The yearning itself is good—to live is to yearn. If there’s nothing for which you yearn, you can hardly be said to be alive.

It’s the form this yearning has taken that is death itself. To yearn for that which is beneath you is to destroy yourself.

So the form must be crushed. Extinguished like the embers of an abandoned campfire in a dry forest.

And then that yearning can be freed, the flame of life that burns inside. That was always good. The yearning—that is life.