Hey, Jealousy
Envy is not an actractive attribute.

It causes people to do some very unatractive things. I have seen people steal, lie, and physically fight out of envy. It is a pecular form of madness, in which we imagine that our lives would be ever so much more satisfying if we simply had some posession, or attribute, or aspect, of someone else's life. There is very little logic involved. As a matter of fact, the object of desire is generally something that would be harmful to the envious one, were it to actually be obtained.

For example, I spoke to a young member of the coalition today. He told me that there are people in his workplace at home that wish they could be here. The mortars, the small arms fire, the explosives at the side of the road, none of that is real to them. Whet they want are the "boasting rights," and the stories to tell at the pub, and the attention of comerades who will whisper among themselves, "Ooh, look at him! He must be very brave, indeed, to have tested his mettle against the dogs of war and come out with such a swagger to his step."

In contrast, there are some out here that envy their associates at home. Their mates back in the homeland sleep in a comfortable bed, and drink whatever beverage they choose, even to excess. They walk the streets without armour, sauntering casually in and out of shops, perhaps buying fish and chips from a vendor on the street, or going to a pizza parlour and a movie afterward.

One of the things I have found most odd is that anyone would envy me, other than that part about being married to Mrs. E. Poet, and having my Poetlings gathered around my feet (when I am not off saving the world). I have a beard, and some military organisations don't allow their members to sport much facial hair. I have the option to wear ordinary clothes, rather than a combat uniform, and generally do so on the weekends. I have worked hard to obtain my level of knowledge, and some governments have found it usefull. On the other hand, I am in a war zone, without so much as a slingshot with which to repel some hostile person, and utterly dependent on the graces of the Coalition for food, shelter, medical treatment, transportation, protection, and various other needs. It seems a poor exchange for the privelege of growing a scraggly beard.

As of late, I have even noticed this madness in myself. I find myself occasionally envious of writers I know, who are seeing some measure of success with their work, although I know full well the sacrifices they have made to get to their currentlevel of success and have chosen not to make those sacrifices myself. I know people that are, to be frank, smarter than me, and I would like to be as smart as they. I know people that are not shy. They express themselves openly, without reservation, for all the world to know. They have no need for masks or pen names.

I even know people that have no compulsion to write.

They are content to watch the news and an occasional television show, perhaps a drama inspired by the life of a talented yet humble chiropractor who races llamas on the weekends and rises to fame and fortune, yet retains his homespun charm. They eat their meals, never thinking to describe the taste, texture, or influence of the choice of beverage on the dining experience, to some complete stranger. They go to work, raise a family, and go bowling on the weekends, and never feel the need to tell anyone what it is like to be them, or to find out if anyone else has the same hopes, fears, or pains that they feel.

In the pursuit of virtue, I try to kill these thoughts before they gain any power over me. I have seen how, unchecked, they can control a life, or even an entire family. But sometimes, when I am not paying attention, and when no one else is around, I take a deep breath, and admit it to myself.

I envy you, who are reading this.

You are not compelled, by forces you don't quite comprehend, to try to save the world. You could quite likely spend the rest of your lives having never put yourself in harms way to get your job done, and be perfectly comfortable with yourself. You can see the injustice of the world, and do small things to help correct it, but not take it as a personal insult when a dictator abuses his people.

In the final analysis, though, I realize that I am who I am, and that there is a reason for that. This could have been someone else's adventure, but for some reason I was the one that needed to be here, at this time, in this place, doing these things with these people. Faith, above all else, enables me to accept what and who I am. Nothing special, mind you. I am, in the final analysis, just some guy. The comfort comes in the belief that there is One who guides the course of human events down to the personal level. I such a Universe, envy is reduced from a deadly obsession to merely an silly, vain habit.