The yoga, the yogic in the words of Krishna, is that life — until death — is mere superficiality. It goes then it comes. That which remains between the cycles is eternal and escapes them only in perfect attunement with the yoga, the yogic path. Arjuna, living his verbose falsehood decries the situation he and his comrades arrive in. He stands not sits in the muck of confusion staring at his plural telos distorted in sifting sands of time. He watches himself draw the string of the Gandiva itself, loosing a terror that rends his kin from limb to limb. And he says ‘Dawg if I was you, I’d kill myself.’ Krishna retorts ‘Everywhere I step foot I leave a trail of names of the sons of Yakub’. Honor before mercy and truth only in righteous violence — ‘this’ is our ascension.
Law is flame. Kindling, tinder, firewood, sparks, denizens, converts, power, and a carrot on a stick whose vertex is just out of sight. Law is the justification, granted, immemorial, first, primary, prior. A stone already etched. Novelty requires a new face. And then still, a rock isn’t like the fleshy whims of the people. Flimsy, flaccid then steeled, resolute: temperance is not stagnation. Justice is not something to be sated or placated or dormant or unmoving. We cannot be the first mover if we stop. Law is…
Inchoate 