We are being sifted.

I see us, all of us, in a forge, being hammered and shaped, and some of us are steel, and some of us are slag. I don’t at this time, want to dwell on the refinement process, but rather the contrast between the two things that are in the fire. The steel cannot make the slag useful but the tolerance of any noticeable amount of slag will render the blade unusable for battle. Everywhere I look, I see slag, and the slag is winning. I am not useful until I am unburdened in my personal life of the impurities that would weaken my temper. Slag is winning through incompetence, inclusion and tolerance, and we are weakened by our impurities to the point of becoming complaining spectators, with no power at all over our weaker opponent.

Slag.

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