It's that time again, isn't it? Hmm, no. Passed time. Late again, per usual. That's alright. As long as there are hours left in the day I might still find myself a purpose. The enemy we face is endless and tireless, yet patient. It never presses forward of its own accord, but always waits for a goodly soldier to stumble upon it, whereupon it might abuse the poor soul's mind forevermore.

Whereas some of my comrades approach their work with an endless zeal, valiantly stepping into the fray daily to push back the vacant tide that plagues us, I find myself unable to quite join in their fervor as of yet. I wonder often if I am lazy or a coward, unable to take up my place in the ranks without first and infrequently fortifying my courage against the task ahead. Once, even, a dear friend questioned my dedication to the effort without, bless her heart, accusing me of either. Such tact was her way, and suited her all the better in the war.

"Maybe," she had said, "though your mind and heart are strong, there is a vocation elsewhere that you might set yourself to? One that will pull you into itself completely and burn away all thought of distraction? Your work here is fine, pay no mind to any who say otherwise, and truly your fellows love you. But take heed of this: the world doesn't long tolerate a man who soldiers as a hobby while proclaiming it his passion."

"You may be right," I had replied. "However, I think myself weak of character and not of passion. The time I most feel alive, when I feel the rightness of God's purpose, if such a thing can be honestly felt by man, is when upon I've gone forth from my rest and into battle against the Endless White and returned slathered in black, to be noticed, if not praised, by my fellows."

"Then from whence comes hesitation? If it is indeed what you love, do it with no thought for any other thing which does not sustain you."

She was right, of course, as oldest friends often are. No amount of food or drink or game rights my heart for long, and never in such a way as a day well spent at arms. And yet I hesitate, and though my heart is my own I can only speculate what lies deepest within it.

It is the enormity of the enemy, I think. Still and patient though it is, it has plagued man since the dawn of time memorial. The cruel humor of it is we'd barely have a record at all if not for our enemy, for the Endless White is also the tapestry upon which we weave the most fundamental bedrocks of our lives. For all our years against it, it only spreads and shifts, but as it does so too do we grow and flourish. One could imagine a worse war.

A never ending task lies before us, and I think now that is what breaks me. What mark might any one man leave on the world in the face of eternity? Some have marked well, and we have remembered their greatness for centuries. But, as sure as daylight comes is it not the pinnacle of hubris to think I might one day be counted among them? And yet, so many others persist with nary a thought of it.

I've been aiming myself wrong, I think now. The Endless White, though the slow and patient enemy of my people, is not meant to be overcome. Against it we sharpen ourselves and our arts and out wit, and in returning from driving against it we are made all the stronger.

I see now the value in every effort. Time washes away all things; what is the value in a day to a century, a century to a millennium, or an eon to eternity? It is the making of work, not the lasting of it, where lies the value. The words I leave here, though brief and quiet before long, are my battle standard for the day. In the working we are made better people, and the world all the brighter for it. The greatest shame which might plague a man is a soul unfulfilled. Rise, if it suits you and fills your heart with joy, and work upon the world whatever good things move you.

I will as well, evermore.