Quietly, head ahead, walk away, vines will cover the wrecked path, sensing the spite of endless wrath, silence swallows, despite our cries, the unnameable calls for warmth. Where are you, human condition? Here, here, so lost, here tradition holds your narrow vision as a lath. How many more foes do we need to realize that a narrow vision is what that truly makes us bleed? No foe, break the lath, envision the horizon that has been freed from the ties of a dim tradition, only the weak of spirit enforce that which is meant to be free from deadly ties, a bounded mind, from empty lies, tradition's cries.
The price of tradition is your own will, your mind’s freedom. Instead of blindly following a certain point of view, why don’t you question yourself if such tradition leads you to love or fear? If it takes you closer to fear, what is the point of living in fear? Why do you choose to follow such path if there is no love in it? What is the purpose of being bounded to tradition if you can’t experience the fullest, being yourself?