Erasing the actual history that's hell bent on marauding, pillaging and fleecing the rest of the brain?
Emerson said, "...Courage is universally admired, meanness despised..."
Yet what if there is only a finite amount of courage allotted to each of us?
What if I used my courage up and all that's left is the sticky resin at the bottom of the honey pot?
What if I am called on to raise my shield and blade and the whole thing crumbles before me.
Do I siphon my tears into the sticky pot and loosen my last remnants of courage? If I purge long enough I will fill that pot; however, diluted my courage may be, it's still mine and I will not harrow my thoughts in directions that do not strengthen the soup of my courage.