Sunday, November 4, 2012
Sidewalk Solace
I kneel down on the hard, cold, grey concrete.
I cannot speak.
My chest feels tight. Feelings parallel to mine shine openly in the eyes of my classmates, whose names I do not know.
Salty tears, shed so freely. Familiar faces; unknown names.
The concrete we kneel on is just to the left of the front glass doors of our high school. A small, clear plastic bucket of colored chalk waits nearby, for any who wish to pay their respects in the same manner as my classmates, whose names I do not know. Red, yellow, green, orange, blue.
I watch them.
“How fast was he going when they hit?”
“I don’t know.”
I do not know his name. I do not know his story. I only know what I gather from words murmured around me.
“I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Graduation’s only in a few weeks.”
“How could it have happened?”
“Was he just being careless?”
“No!”
“He was a responsible kid, he was never careless.”
“And he knew how to ride- he’s been on a motorbike since he was just a kid.”
I cannot feel them, or their words. They draw sad farewells on the concrete with the chalk in their hands.
I watch them.
I struggle within myself.
It has been a difficult year. Emotional and mental imbalance, stemming from the recurrence of a brain tumor, necessitated my extended absence from school mere weeks ago. Returning is an experiment, to learn if I can handle the stresses of public education. A desire to be free from the troubles of life has required a closer watch by responsible eyes. A hard working father, five hundred miles away, has had to leave that duty in the capable, caring hands of an overworked mother. She takes me to school and will pick me up at its end. The trip this morning is already gone from memory. I live each moment focused silently inward; time is slow poison.
And now this.
A moment before, I saw them mourning. The pressure in my head, my heart began to multiply. I deeply wanted to help them heal, to be a friend. Tears, honest and real as theirs, are locked up inside the tightness in my chest.
I feverishly open my yellow backpack. I gather out my binder of tattered loose leaf paper, then lower it to the concrete and open.
Taking a red piece of chalk from the bucket, I draw a quick line around the binder’s edge. I rise from my knees and turn away. I feel my classmates’ stares. I muster all the self-mastery I have left to not turn back to see whose eyes those looks belong to. Instead, I direct my feet toward the crosswalk. I do not know if I will return when lunch is done.
It is excruciating, sitting immobile with my noon meal before me, bound by the necessity to adhere to the unwritten laws of propriety, whilst the most precious item in my possession, my binder of words, lies open on the concrete mere yards away for any to glance therein- or steal, or deface, or destroy. I had no choice but to give it. I had to give something. It was the only thing that I could honorably have given. Something as emotionally powerful to me as their grief was to them, these classmates who I do not know the names of. Anything less would have made a mockery of their feelings. That was something I simply could not do.
My binder of poetry, with the most private, personal, precious words ever written by this hand, belongs to them now. It will be theirs for as long a time as I can endure. If I return to find its heart gone, so be it.
Lunchtime is done. My quaking body, beckoned by an aching, torn-up spirit, moves quickly back across the muted street. I stop. A painful walk forgotten.
What are they doing to my heart?
I look to the spot where I left it. Too slowly to quiet the dread building inside, I walk only as fast as my body allows me. Students still sit and kneel on the concrete. One of them lies on her side, cheek in hand. My binder, my poetry lies open in front of her.
How many have seen into my heart? What have they learned? What will they do?
She glances up at me as my steps come closer. I see her rise quickly and move away. I am disappointed, that her thoughts will never be voiced. I am relieved, that my heart has not been stolen, or defaced, or destroyed. I shakily gather the binder up and quickly place it back inside the yellow pack.
I have to endure my final two classes. They pass without any response. My mind holds only faces. In shock, it takes in physical details as sweet relief; my fellow children are suddenly so beautiful.
School is done. The front doors are before me, my arms pushing through. My chest becomes tighter. Another girl walks toward me, not faltering, on the very left edge of my peripheral vision. She is radiant, filled with some inner light. I know she has seen deep into me.
I am given no warning.
She reaches her fair, slender arms round me. I am bound.
I cannot breathe.
She whispers three words.
“I never knew…”
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Park Bench Friend
Here I sit on this park bench, so lost in my thought that it takes a moment to recognize that the words so abruptly spoken in the peaceful silence are directed at me.
“What happened to the back of your head?”
Ah yes, THOSE words. Who else would they be directed toward?
I swivel around and see her standing there- long, wavy, dark, dark hair, oval-shaped, sapphire blue eyes, the most angelic of faces-
“Care to hear an engaging tale?” I query.
“I don’t have much time, actually,” is her response.
“What happened to the back of my head nearly cost me my life,” I tell her calmly. “I would be tearing myself down if I spent only five seconds on it. If you’d like to take a rain check, though, I come here five, six days a week.”
She looks at me in silence. Seeing nothing on her face to lend belief to the idea of her staying to talk, I turn back to the front and, taking a deep breath, begin the process of losing myself in my thoughts again. It is so much more comforting in here than out there. Lately- and by lately I mean my latest convalescence, and the prior medical fiasco that necessitated it- I am finding it my only place of psychological resort and retreat. Seeing that I don’t care to spend much of my precious time in “reality” because of its relative lack of appeal, I have lost myself in my thoughts, unaided, for hours at a time. Aided, I have spent months. My goal, such as it is, is to lose myself in them forever. Those who do not like this or do not agree with it will have a problem- it’s their problem. Thank goodness I only answer to God. He knows the reasons for everything I do. I think he is kinder than I know or even can understand.
My thoughts are again interrupted. Vibrations spread from the seat of my pants to the rest of my body. I glance to my right to see her sitting there with an expectant look on her beautiful face.
“I’ll listen,” she says.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“So you’re a walking miracle,” she concludes.
“You could say so,” I nod, “If you believe in miracles.”
“I don’t,” she tells me. “But I believe you.”
“I appreciate it. Not everyone does.”
“How many have you told?”
“Thousands have heard my story. That doesn’t mean I was the one to tell them all.”
“Thousands? How is that even possible?” she asks incredulously.
“It becomes easier when you tell a bunch of them all at once. Quantity, then quality, though there are times when I think I might have wanted things to turn out differently.”
She cocks her head to one side. “You don’t like how things have turned out?”
“I don’t dislike it,” I explain. “That doesn’t mean that things might not have been better otherwise.”
“How so?” she asks, calmly this time.
“It has made me susceptible to bouts of empty, meaningless pride. That, in turn, has made it nearly impossible for me to put my mind to the task I was meant to accomplish.”
“What task is that?”
“I was born to write,” I say, smiling at her. “My task is to write something to change the world- the entire world- for the better.”
She smiles back at me. “What sorts of things do you write, when your pride doesn’t stop you?”
Ah, she is listening still. “I write poetry, short stories, and when I can keep that pride of mine in check, I’m writing a novel.”
“What’s your novel about?”
I tell her in brief.
“That sounds interesting. It’s definitely a wide open field.”
“I enjoy having room to work with, although, I have run into a snag or two. Even with the unique topic I have found, the ways of getting to the story’s ending have been blocked, because the ideas have already been used. I want my book to be original as much as possible. I have learned that originality is not something easily come by.”
“Could you write something right now, if someone asked you?”
“I could,” I say to her. “What would I write about?”
“You are really passionate about helping other people through your writing. How about you write about something you have done in your writing that has helped someone?”
I mull it over for a second. “How about something that is helping or will help? Does that work?”
“Sure,” she laughs easily. It was a very happy sound.
“Here we go, then.
Sitting so quietly upon a log deep in a forest glade, an angel tiptoes up to me as my memories all fade. Placing a hand upon my brow, she says, you’re feeling low. I will help you, I will heal you, I will make your being glow. As soon as her heavenly skin rests upon my own, I am borne on wings of mercy to a place I might call home. Angels of light and darkness I see as my vision is unfurled; I realize as I view these souls, this is my own real world. Each of these souls, so bright and so dark, I have touched and have touched me. And every one has played a part in the effort to make me free. Look, she says, and I will show you, the lives that have touched yours, And the lives that have felt your touch upon most distant shores. One by one I view them all, counting not the passing hours. My body feels not the burning sun not the cloudbursts’ falling showers. I am lost in memory, the happy and the glad; but of all that has changed me, I know not whether has been to the good or bad. Would you like to see what happened to the angel who saved your life? Would you like to know what has become of her through all these years of strife? Yes, I answer shakily, though I am frightened to the core, please tell me what became of my angel, she whose spirit I adore…”
“Wow,” she says quietly. “You came up with that right now? That isn’t something you’ve memorized?”
“Nope. Purely improvisation.”
She laughs again. I am beginning to like the sound. “Do you have any of your poetry memorized?
“I do.”
“Well I like your impromptu poetry; maybe I will like your memorized poetry too. What do you have for me?” she asks, a twinkle in her eye.
It is my turn to laugh. “Here we go again. This is called Dark Angel.
Black and white, bitter and sweet, emperors and kings, yet so obsolete. Oxymoron all over the earth confuses the difference of anger and mirth. Outside does not matter, but what is inside counts, we cannot judge a soul by external amounts. And so others see a child of hell; she is definitely not, simply a darker angel. Diseases and sickness can fly through the air, but rumors go faster, and without a care. They see a bright devil who hides the heart well, but I? I see a beautiful dark angel…”
She was quiet for a moment. “You wrote that about someone you knew, didn’t you?”
It takes me a moment to respond. When I do, my voice is strained.
“Yes."
“What happened to the back of your head?”
Ah yes, THOSE words. Who else would they be directed toward?
I swivel around and see her standing there- long, wavy, dark, dark hair, oval-shaped, sapphire blue eyes, the most angelic of faces-
“Care to hear an engaging tale?” I query.
“I don’t have much time, actually,” is her response.
“What happened to the back of my head nearly cost me my life,” I tell her calmly. “I would be tearing myself down if I spent only five seconds on it. If you’d like to take a rain check, though, I come here five, six days a week.”
She looks at me in silence. Seeing nothing on her face to lend belief to the idea of her staying to talk, I turn back to the front and, taking a deep breath, begin the process of losing myself in my thoughts again. It is so much more comforting in here than out there. Lately- and by lately I mean my latest convalescence, and the prior medical fiasco that necessitated it- I am finding it my only place of psychological resort and retreat. Seeing that I don’t care to spend much of my precious time in “reality” because of its relative lack of appeal, I have lost myself in my thoughts, unaided, for hours at a time. Aided, I have spent months. My goal, such as it is, is to lose myself in them forever. Those who do not like this or do not agree with it will have a problem- it’s their problem. Thank goodness I only answer to God. He knows the reasons for everything I do. I think he is kinder than I know or even can understand.
My thoughts are again interrupted. Vibrations spread from the seat of my pants to the rest of my body. I glance to my right to see her sitting there with an expectant look on her beautiful face.
“I’ll listen,” she says.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“So you’re a walking miracle,” she concludes.
“You could say so,” I nod, “If you believe in miracles.”
“I don’t,” she tells me. “But I believe you.”
“I appreciate it. Not everyone does.”
“How many have you told?”
“Thousands have heard my story. That doesn’t mean I was the one to tell them all.”
“Thousands? How is that even possible?” she asks incredulously.
“It becomes easier when you tell a bunch of them all at once. Quantity, then quality, though there are times when I think I might have wanted things to turn out differently.”
She cocks her head to one side. “You don’t like how things have turned out?”
“I don’t dislike it,” I explain. “That doesn’t mean that things might not have been better otherwise.”
“How so?” she asks, calmly this time.
“It has made me susceptible to bouts of empty, meaningless pride. That, in turn, has made it nearly impossible for me to put my mind to the task I was meant to accomplish.”
“What task is that?”
“I was born to write,” I say, smiling at her. “My task is to write something to change the world- the entire world- for the better.”
She smiles back at me. “What sorts of things do you write, when your pride doesn’t stop you?”
Ah, she is listening still. “I write poetry, short stories, and when I can keep that pride of mine in check, I’m writing a novel.”
“What’s your novel about?”
I tell her in brief.
“That sounds interesting. It’s definitely a wide open field.”
“I enjoy having room to work with, although, I have run into a snag or two. Even with the unique topic I have found, the ways of getting to the story’s ending have been blocked, because the ideas have already been used. I want my book to be original as much as possible. I have learned that originality is not something easily come by.”
“Could you write something right now, if someone asked you?”
“I could,” I say to her. “What would I write about?”
“You are really passionate about helping other people through your writing. How about you write about something you have done in your writing that has helped someone?”
I mull it over for a second. “How about something that is helping or will help? Does that work?”
“Sure,” she laughs easily. It was a very happy sound.
“Here we go, then.
Sitting so quietly upon a log deep in a forest glade, an angel tiptoes up to me as my memories all fade. Placing a hand upon my brow, she says, you’re feeling low. I will help you, I will heal you, I will make your being glow. As soon as her heavenly skin rests upon my own, I am borne on wings of mercy to a place I might call home. Angels of light and darkness I see as my vision is unfurled; I realize as I view these souls, this is my own real world. Each of these souls, so bright and so dark, I have touched and have touched me. And every one has played a part in the effort to make me free. Look, she says, and I will show you, the lives that have touched yours, And the lives that have felt your touch upon most distant shores. One by one I view them all, counting not the passing hours. My body feels not the burning sun not the cloudbursts’ falling showers. I am lost in memory, the happy and the glad; but of all that has changed me, I know not whether has been to the good or bad. Would you like to see what happened to the angel who saved your life? Would you like to know what has become of her through all these years of strife? Yes, I answer shakily, though I am frightened to the core, please tell me what became of my angel, she whose spirit I adore…”
“Wow,” she says quietly. “You came up with that right now? That isn’t something you’ve memorized?”
“Nope. Purely improvisation.”
She laughs again. I am beginning to like the sound. “Do you have any of your poetry memorized?
“I do.”
“Well I like your impromptu poetry; maybe I will like your memorized poetry too. What do you have for me?” she asks, a twinkle in her eye.
It is my turn to laugh. “Here we go again. This is called Dark Angel.
Black and white, bitter and sweet, emperors and kings, yet so obsolete. Oxymoron all over the earth confuses the difference of anger and mirth. Outside does not matter, but what is inside counts, we cannot judge a soul by external amounts. And so others see a child of hell; she is definitely not, simply a darker angel. Diseases and sickness can fly through the air, but rumors go faster, and without a care. They see a bright devil who hides the heart well, but I? I see a beautiful dark angel…”
She was quiet for a moment. “You wrote that about someone you knew, didn’t you?”
It takes me a moment to respond. When I do, my voice is strained.
“Yes."
Flash of inspiration
If wishes were fishes there wouldn't be enough water in the oceans and lakes and rivers and streams to hold them all. Likewise with dreams. Perhaps the answer is not to wish for great things, but plan for great things. Your focus determines your reality. Create the reality you want to experience in your own mind, then behave as though that reality is already beginning to occur. Then enjoy the ride as your actions naturally follow to make that reality your own. LET IT BE!
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Green Exit Sign
The green exit sign looms large before my hazel eyes. It has been days since I saw the last, for I have lost my ability to move from one to the next with any kind of efficiency. The images are still fresh in my mind; the faces and smirks and smiles and grimaces and unveiled eyes burned into me forever. I keep moving in an effort to blank them from my thoughts; the miles left behind me by my own two feet have yet to prove any hindrance to my pain. I have taken the labels off and thrown them away; now I throw the bottles as well. My wings are clipped; it will do me no good to keep the feathers.
I will walk until I have no more thoughts to think. I desire numbness. I desire forgetfulness, of everything but the subconscious understanding of how to move one foot in front of the other and the unending compulsion to do so forever. Physical pain is almost soothing now; mental and emotional pain is unbearable.
I have relived it all, over and over again. The shining implements of pain; the methodical, scientific, unfeeling administrators of that pain; the sympathetic, well-intentioned, unhelpful, pointless murmurings of mouths unversed in the art of speaking balm; the soul windows passing heavily biased judgment on one whose sole purpose has been to fall; the dreams risen and crushed, risen and crushed, risen and crushed, so many times! I was given wings, they were so large and beautiful, yet never while they were growing was I allowed to jump off the smallest boulder to see if I could fly! Now these shriveled up nubs at the high reaches of my back are left to me as solemn, mocking reminders of what would never be but what might have been! What was the point, in any of it? I want to understand! If I am doomed to live unfulfilled, I want to know why! I have made grave mistakes, but so has every other person on the face of this wretchedly beautiful world.
I have not wanted to be here for so long! Where is the balm in my life?! Where is the other half of my soul? Where can I go but ever onward, no place of rest where I may lay my weary head? Even now, if I let myself, I can feel the lessening of my strength as it ebbs away from each limb. I know I cannot go on forever. It would doubtless seem pointless to many, this continuation of motion into oblivion. Why should I not simply lay down as countless others before me and die? The answer is that it is not in me to admit defeat, not permanently. I have given up so many times, being determined to stay down till the glorious end. But I knew then as I know now, that it would not be a glorious end. The only end that has ever been glorious is the end in motion. There is no glory in quitting. I know what I am. I know who and what I was. Who I will be is determined by what I do. As of this moment, I am continuing on.
These are the bloodied facts of my life: I am a two- time brain tumor surgery survivor with four surgeries above the neck and one below. I have relearned how to walk five times; I have walked to the precipice on weakest legs and looked over, wanting to take another, final, step. I have had my heart broken many times and have broken other hearts just as many. I have committed heinous crimes, yet somewhere in the back of my fevered mind I hear the voices of angels as they thank me for what I have done for others of God’s children. At times I wish I could remember what I might have done to help them. At other times it seems to me better that I do not remember, for so many wonderful memories would only be so many more excuses to lock myself in the past. I would not go back into my past and change it, not even my crimes. I will not continue to harrow up in my soul, guilt and shame and fear of recrimination.
I am who I am. I have made terrible mistakes. I have been through terrifyingly hot fire. I have experienced death and heartache and despair. I have enjoyed love, and caring, and joy. I have been attacked by the adversary time and time again. And time and time again, I have been saved by my Advocate. I know from personal experience that this life is heart-breakingly difficult at times, and that we sometimes only wish it over. I know how much it hurts to fall, whether by our own choices or not. It can hurt even more to get back up again. I know firsthand the powerful lure of carnal pleasures. It can be so easy to forget who I am, that I am a son of Almighty God, that I bear the Melchizedec Priesthood, that I am capable of saving lives and also capable of destroying them. I know that God lives and that He loves me enough to let me fall, so that I may learn to differentiate between good and evil. I have learned that my life is precious to God. I have learned that the Savior has walked by my side all my life, and that he knows who I am. I suppose that through everything that has happened to me I have become closer to the person God wants me to be, though I have taken many detours on the road to getting there.
God is kind. He has always allowed me another chance, another opportunity to turn back to Him after I have turned away yet again. The darkness attracts me so strongly that all I want at times is to turn and sprint headlong in its direction. The biggest question for me is “What do I really want?” The problem with asking that question and finding the answer is simply that I want opposing things, things that cannot be had at the same time; things that I must make a choice between if I am to make progress in either. It hurts to think about it; finding something, anything, to numb or forget the pain becomes the subsequent, consuming endeavor. There are many times when all I want is to cease feeling anything at all. At times it is as though I am bound, suspended over a bed of smoldering coals, and someone I cannot see tells me that things will get better. At other times it is as though I am being drawn and quartered, but at an excruciatingly slow pace, and someone else I cannot see tells me that I am doing remarkably well.
I am not doing well! I am being torn to shreds inside!
I will walk on. I will fall. I will get back up. I will fall yet again, and I will struggle from my knees. They are bloody; I have fallen upon them too many times for it not to be so. I have discovered what I want more than anything. I have learned that knowing what I really desire only fans the flames, and yet, I still want to know! I am determined to hurt! It would seem that trials, troubles, tribulations, toils, difficulties, impossibilities, pain, hardship, and every other descriptive substitute for opposition here in mortality are but different ways of spelling out “par for the course.” They are nothing but meaningless words until one actually experiences them firsthand. Here it is a given that a soul- any soul- will feel “growing pains,” whether he or she is striving for greatness or not. For those who ARE striving for such, however, it is a given that all possible opposition will be stacked against them. It is said that only with such opposing forces in operation can one expect to be CHANGED from mediocrity to greatness. When one battles with depression in addition to other challenges, things are made so much more difficult. Though such a one may desire to succeed, the desire to give up each time one falls is greater than it would otherwise be, and the attractiveness of such an option monumental. That the pain will stop if one gives up is the most tormenting thought imaginable; yet another reason that one wishes the numbness to set in. When one has made an unbroken habit of getting up, it is impossible to stay down forever! It is impossible to grant oneself leave to rest for any substantial length of time; it is only possible for someone else to grant such a miraculous thing. The only difference between quitting and grace is whose hand it is that falls.
I know not how many miles I have walked, but I know that many, many hours have passed. I know that my limbs ache, though they ache less now than before. I know not if this means I am at last becoming numb. I know that there are many who would take me wherever I wanted to go if I asked them, but they I also wish to forget. All connections to humanity, all feeling, all understanding; I want it gone. I want to forget who I am; I want to forget everything and everyone I’ve known. It hurts to love. I don't want to hurt any more.
No more signs. No more guideposts, whatever their color. No more understanding. Numbness.
I will walk until I have no more thoughts to think. I desire numbness. I desire forgetfulness, of everything but the subconscious understanding of how to move one foot in front of the other and the unending compulsion to do so forever. Physical pain is almost soothing now; mental and emotional pain is unbearable.
I have relived it all, over and over again. The shining implements of pain; the methodical, scientific, unfeeling administrators of that pain; the sympathetic, well-intentioned, unhelpful, pointless murmurings of mouths unversed in the art of speaking balm; the soul windows passing heavily biased judgment on one whose sole purpose has been to fall; the dreams risen and crushed, risen and crushed, risen and crushed, so many times! I was given wings, they were so large and beautiful, yet never while they were growing was I allowed to jump off the smallest boulder to see if I could fly! Now these shriveled up nubs at the high reaches of my back are left to me as solemn, mocking reminders of what would never be but what might have been! What was the point, in any of it? I want to understand! If I am doomed to live unfulfilled, I want to know why! I have made grave mistakes, but so has every other person on the face of this wretchedly beautiful world.
I have not wanted to be here for so long! Where is the balm in my life?! Where is the other half of my soul? Where can I go but ever onward, no place of rest where I may lay my weary head? Even now, if I let myself, I can feel the lessening of my strength as it ebbs away from each limb. I know I cannot go on forever. It would doubtless seem pointless to many, this continuation of motion into oblivion. Why should I not simply lay down as countless others before me and die? The answer is that it is not in me to admit defeat, not permanently. I have given up so many times, being determined to stay down till the glorious end. But I knew then as I know now, that it would not be a glorious end. The only end that has ever been glorious is the end in motion. There is no glory in quitting. I know what I am. I know who and what I was. Who I will be is determined by what I do. As of this moment, I am continuing on.
These are the bloodied facts of my life: I am a two- time brain tumor surgery survivor with four surgeries above the neck and one below. I have relearned how to walk five times; I have walked to the precipice on weakest legs and looked over, wanting to take another, final, step. I have had my heart broken many times and have broken other hearts just as many. I have committed heinous crimes, yet somewhere in the back of my fevered mind I hear the voices of angels as they thank me for what I have done for others of God’s children. At times I wish I could remember what I might have done to help them. At other times it seems to me better that I do not remember, for so many wonderful memories would only be so many more excuses to lock myself in the past. I would not go back into my past and change it, not even my crimes. I will not continue to harrow up in my soul, guilt and shame and fear of recrimination.
I am who I am. I have made terrible mistakes. I have been through terrifyingly hot fire. I have experienced death and heartache and despair. I have enjoyed love, and caring, and joy. I have been attacked by the adversary time and time again. And time and time again, I have been saved by my Advocate. I know from personal experience that this life is heart-breakingly difficult at times, and that we sometimes only wish it over. I know how much it hurts to fall, whether by our own choices or not. It can hurt even more to get back up again. I know firsthand the powerful lure of carnal pleasures. It can be so easy to forget who I am, that I am a son of Almighty God, that I bear the Melchizedec Priesthood, that I am capable of saving lives and also capable of destroying them. I know that God lives and that He loves me enough to let me fall, so that I may learn to differentiate between good and evil. I have learned that my life is precious to God. I have learned that the Savior has walked by my side all my life, and that he knows who I am. I suppose that through everything that has happened to me I have become closer to the person God wants me to be, though I have taken many detours on the road to getting there.
God is kind. He has always allowed me another chance, another opportunity to turn back to Him after I have turned away yet again. The darkness attracts me so strongly that all I want at times is to turn and sprint headlong in its direction. The biggest question for me is “What do I really want?” The problem with asking that question and finding the answer is simply that I want opposing things, things that cannot be had at the same time; things that I must make a choice between if I am to make progress in either. It hurts to think about it; finding something, anything, to numb or forget the pain becomes the subsequent, consuming endeavor. There are many times when all I want is to cease feeling anything at all. At times it is as though I am bound, suspended over a bed of smoldering coals, and someone I cannot see tells me that things will get better. At other times it is as though I am being drawn and quartered, but at an excruciatingly slow pace, and someone else I cannot see tells me that I am doing remarkably well.
I am not doing well! I am being torn to shreds inside!
I will walk on. I will fall. I will get back up. I will fall yet again, and I will struggle from my knees. They are bloody; I have fallen upon them too many times for it not to be so. I have discovered what I want more than anything. I have learned that knowing what I really desire only fans the flames, and yet, I still want to know! I am determined to hurt! It would seem that trials, troubles, tribulations, toils, difficulties, impossibilities, pain, hardship, and every other descriptive substitute for opposition here in mortality are but different ways of spelling out “par for the course.” They are nothing but meaningless words until one actually experiences them firsthand. Here it is a given that a soul- any soul- will feel “growing pains,” whether he or she is striving for greatness or not. For those who ARE striving for such, however, it is a given that all possible opposition will be stacked against them. It is said that only with such opposing forces in operation can one expect to be CHANGED from mediocrity to greatness. When one battles with depression in addition to other challenges, things are made so much more difficult. Though such a one may desire to succeed, the desire to give up each time one falls is greater than it would otherwise be, and the attractiveness of such an option monumental. That the pain will stop if one gives up is the most tormenting thought imaginable; yet another reason that one wishes the numbness to set in. When one has made an unbroken habit of getting up, it is impossible to stay down forever! It is impossible to grant oneself leave to rest for any substantial length of time; it is only possible for someone else to grant such a miraculous thing. The only difference between quitting and grace is whose hand it is that falls.
I know not how many miles I have walked, but I know that many, many hours have passed. I know that my limbs ache, though they ache less now than before. I know not if this means I am at last becoming numb. I know that there are many who would take me wherever I wanted to go if I asked them, but they I also wish to forget. All connections to humanity, all feeling, all understanding; I want it gone. I want to forget who I am; I want to forget everything and everyone I’ve known. It hurts to love. I don't want to hurt any more.
No more signs. No more guideposts, whatever their color. No more understanding. Numbness.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Word Club Part Two Cont.
‘I am concerned for Janet, Rudy. And for Jim.’
Rudy stood in his customary place behind the front desk, puzzled and surprised.
‘I believed that they were doing quite well, sir. I was not aware that there was cause for concern.’
‘Do you know what is happening this very moment?’
‘I believe I do, sir. Janet has just disappeared by becoming one with the trees, and Jim has just begun his march with the battle clan.’
‘You know as well as I do that what happens in the ‘Word Club’, as we have chosen to call it, is real. The people are real, the creatures of the wild are real, and the forces at work throughout the inner- and outer- world of the Word Club are real.
‘Yes, sir, I do’.
‘You know, then, that the danger is also real. The risks, the possibilities- both wonderful and terrible- are real. While it is possible for one to create conceivably anything, it is a given that creatures, people, and inherent forces, once created, will think and act for themselves. Do you understand, Rudy?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Both Janet and Jim are, I believe, under the impression that while they can be hurt here, they are not in any real danger- that they are virtually invulnerable in the Word Club. I know you have given them a warning or two, phrased pleasantly for their benefit, but they still seem to view the Word Club as their own little playground; an all-new jungle gym, built just yesterday for their personal amusement. How long has our little club been around, Rudy?’
‘For over two hundred thirty years, sir, under various names and guises.’
‘Precisely. Over two centuries of new ideas, all growing and expanding on top of one another, with nothing to hinder the growth. That is the amount of wildness we are dealing with. That is the amount Janet and Jim have unwittingly begun to open themselves to- Janet in particular.’
‘What can I do to help, sir?’
The Perpetuator nodded, once. ‘We need you to take up the role we once had you set aside. We need you to go in again, as one of them. We still count you as our foremost field agent. You will need every bit of your experience, every ounce of your savvy to guide them through the rest of this, their second experience in the Word Club. We need you to leave now, this very moment, if you would.’
‘As you wish, sir’.
His eyes shining, Rudy left his place behind the front desk and approached the opposing wall. A most curious circular picture hung there. Within the smooth golden frame, molten silver flowed, running in an endless whirlpool of glowing color. Never did a single drop of the liquid metal fall out of the golden frame. Rudy stood still, gazing steadily, unblinkingly. After a moment of this the whirlpool stilled, and Rudy beheld a group of broad-shouldered, hard-faced men marching down a hillside. Another moment, and they were out of sight, the sound of their marching feet gradually fading away.
Still he gazed, allowing himself to take in the now-quiet scene. All seemed still at the top of the hill, among the trees. Rudy allowed his eyes to lose their focus, everything becoming blurred. For a moment longer everything was still, and then he caught it- movement just at the edge of his vision. He could not have said whether it was inside or outside the frame, for he did not turn to look; instead, he stayed as he was, in the same relaxed state. Steadily, the entire hidden scene began to unfold before him, and he saw where Janet now was.
She was not alone.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Rudy stood in his customary place behind the front desk, puzzled and surprised.
‘I believed that they were doing quite well, sir. I was not aware that there was cause for concern.’
‘Do you know what is happening this very moment?’
‘I believe I do, sir. Janet has just disappeared by becoming one with the trees, and Jim has just begun his march with the battle clan.’
‘You know as well as I do that what happens in the ‘Word Club’, as we have chosen to call it, is real. The people are real, the creatures of the wild are real, and the forces at work throughout the inner- and outer- world of the Word Club are real.
‘Yes, sir, I do’.
‘You know, then, that the danger is also real. The risks, the possibilities- both wonderful and terrible- are real. While it is possible for one to create conceivably anything, it is a given that creatures, people, and inherent forces, once created, will think and act for themselves. Do you understand, Rudy?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Both Janet and Jim are, I believe, under the impression that while they can be hurt here, they are not in any real danger- that they are virtually invulnerable in the Word Club. I know you have given them a warning or two, phrased pleasantly for their benefit, but they still seem to view the Word Club as their own little playground; an all-new jungle gym, built just yesterday for their personal amusement. How long has our little club been around, Rudy?’
‘For over two hundred thirty years, sir, under various names and guises.’
‘Precisely. Over two centuries of new ideas, all growing and expanding on top of one another, with nothing to hinder the growth. That is the amount of wildness we are dealing with. That is the amount Janet and Jim have unwittingly begun to open themselves to- Janet in particular.’
‘What can I do to help, sir?’
The Perpetuator nodded, once. ‘We need you to take up the role we once had you set aside. We need you to go in again, as one of them. We still count you as our foremost field agent. You will need every bit of your experience, every ounce of your savvy to guide them through the rest of this, their second experience in the Word Club. We need you to leave now, this very moment, if you would.’
‘As you wish, sir’.
His eyes shining, Rudy left his place behind the front desk and approached the opposing wall. A most curious circular picture hung there. Within the smooth golden frame, molten silver flowed, running in an endless whirlpool of glowing color. Never did a single drop of the liquid metal fall out of the golden frame. Rudy stood still, gazing steadily, unblinkingly. After a moment of this the whirlpool stilled, and Rudy beheld a group of broad-shouldered, hard-faced men marching down a hillside. Another moment, and they were out of sight, the sound of their marching feet gradually fading away.
Still he gazed, allowing himself to take in the now-quiet scene. All seemed still at the top of the hill, among the trees. Rudy allowed his eyes to lose their focus, everything becoming blurred. For a moment longer everything was still, and then he caught it- movement just at the edge of his vision. He could not have said whether it was inside or outside the frame, for he did not turn to look; instead, he stayed as he was, in the same relaxed state. Steadily, the entire hidden scene began to unfold before him, and he saw where Janet now was.
She was not alone.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Choice
Once again total war fully fills me within
Much more and I feel I will die.
I search for some window, no matter how small
I can’t breathe, I can’t sweat, I can’t cry!
What path can I take to find my release?
I have not the power to Mend
…One by one, angels beautiful come to my side
A most bittersweet chance to lend.
Meetings past I recall, they were not in this guise-
I merely saw damsels sublime.
Now I hear their thoughts, a heart- wrenching choice
They are here, to tell me, is mine.
I can keep on my path, continue this course-
Endure my own thoughts till I’m through,
Or I can be altered, no longer myself
Unable to grow, always new.
What a terrible choice! Forever a babe-
Never growing, never thinking- no pain.
Or always growing, and ever hurting,
Fearing that I’ll go insane!
If I stay it may kill me, but my life will be real
If I leave, there’s no chance I’ll return…
"There are those who will need you, should you choose to stay;
Vital lessons you’ll help them to learn."
I cannot choose! I wish for both!
I want to grow out my heart.
I am eager to love, yet I feel deep inside
That so doing will tear me apart!
Paralyzed to inaction- they make my choice:
Gathering linen shining white,
Slowly, gently, they wrap me within
Until I am engulfed by the light.
Just before I am gone they whisper
"Someday you again may live
When you can take the wondrous love within
And every part of it give…"
Much more and I feel I will die.
I search for some window, no matter how small
I can’t breathe, I can’t sweat, I can’t cry!
What path can I take to find my release?
I have not the power to Mend
…One by one, angels beautiful come to my side
A most bittersweet chance to lend.
Meetings past I recall, they were not in this guise-
I merely saw damsels sublime.
Now I hear their thoughts, a heart- wrenching choice
They are here, to tell me, is mine.
I can keep on my path, continue this course-
Endure my own thoughts till I’m through,
Or I can be altered, no longer myself
Unable to grow, always new.
What a terrible choice! Forever a babe-
Never growing, never thinking- no pain.
Or always growing, and ever hurting,
Fearing that I’ll go insane!
If I stay it may kill me, but my life will be real
If I leave, there’s no chance I’ll return…
"There are those who will need you, should you choose to stay;
Vital lessons you’ll help them to learn."
I cannot choose! I wish for both!
I want to grow out my heart.
I am eager to love, yet I feel deep inside
That so doing will tear me apart!
Paralyzed to inaction- they make my choice:
Gathering linen shining white,
Slowly, gently, they wrap me within
Until I am engulfed by the light.
Just before I am gone they whisper
"Someday you again may live
When you can take the wondrous love within
And every part of it give…"
Yes
‘Yes,’ she says to me.
‘You have done great things.
You have endured trials, troubles,
And tribulations too.
You have also made many mistakes,
Though you have tried to rectify them
As best you could.
After it is all said and done,
What do you want now,
At the end of it all?’
‘I just want it over,’
I say as the tears spill
Down my cheeks.
‘Please, can’t it be over?’
‘It is not for me to say.
It is for God to decide
When to take you Home.
You will have to wait upon Him.’
‘I have been waiting for so long already.
My heart is breaking. I feel that I cannot
Bear this much longer before I break altogether.’
‘Perhaps that is what he is waiting for:
A broken heart and a contrite spirit.’
‘It hurts,’ I say to her.
‘It hurts so much to live.
I don’t understand why
I must go through this.’
‘I do not know either,’
She replies somewhat sadly.
‘I do know that you just have to keep going,
No matter what, and you will win the prize.’
‘Please,’ I cry. ‘Will you pray with me?’
‘I have been praying with and for you all along.
I will pray with you now, as well.’
‘You have done great things.
You have endured trials, troubles,
And tribulations too.
You have also made many mistakes,
Though you have tried to rectify them
As best you could.
After it is all said and done,
What do you want now,
At the end of it all?’
‘I just want it over,’
I say as the tears spill
Down my cheeks.
‘Please, can’t it be over?’
‘It is not for me to say.
It is for God to decide
When to take you Home.
You will have to wait upon Him.’
‘I have been waiting for so long already.
My heart is breaking. I feel that I cannot
Bear this much longer before I break altogether.’
‘Perhaps that is what he is waiting for:
A broken heart and a contrite spirit.’
‘It hurts,’ I say to her.
‘It hurts so much to live.
I don’t understand why
I must go through this.’
‘I do not know either,’
She replies somewhat sadly.
‘I do know that you just have to keep going,
No matter what, and you will win the prize.’
‘Please,’ I cry. ‘Will you pray with me?’
‘I have been praying with and for you all along.
I will pray with you now, as well.’
A Broken Heart
‘Yes,’ she says to me.
‘You have done great things.
You have endured trials, troubles,
And tribulations too.
You have also made many mistakes,
Though you have tried to rectify them
As best you could.
After it is all said and done,
What do you want now,
At the end of it all?’
‘I just want it over,’
I say as the tears spill
Down my cheeks.
‘Please, can’t it be over?’
‘It is not for me to say.
It is for God to decide
When to take you Home.
You will have to wait upon Him.’
‘I have been waiting for so long already.
My heart is breaking. I feel that I cannot
Bear this much longer before I break altogether.’
‘Perhaps that is what He is waiting for:
A broken heart and a contrite spirit.’
‘It is always ‘perhaps,’ isn’t it?
I never seem to know for sure.
I need to know how much longer
I must stay here.’
‘And what will you do once you know?’
‘If it is very soon, I shall cry in relief.
If it is not, I shall crumble in despair.
Nothing else seems to matter anymore.’
‘You must not give up hope, Adam!
Have there not been many signs
That your time is soon?
Have there not been many signs
Telling you that you don’t need to worry?’
‘My faith, perhaps, is not what it needs to be.
I have stumbled greatly. Now I doubt myself.’
‘Trust in God,’ she says to me. ‘He will make
Up the difference where you lack.’
‘I am trying to do so,’ I reply.
‘We are waiting for you when you are done.
Just keep trying for a little longer, and then
We shall be there to get you Home.’
‘Home,’ I sigh. ‘It is nearly impossible to wait.’
‘You have done great things.
You have endured trials, troubles,
And tribulations too.
You have also made many mistakes,
Though you have tried to rectify them
As best you could.
After it is all said and done,
What do you want now,
At the end of it all?’
‘I just want it over,’
I say as the tears spill
Down my cheeks.
‘Please, can’t it be over?’
‘It is not for me to say.
It is for God to decide
When to take you Home.
You will have to wait upon Him.’
‘I have been waiting for so long already.
My heart is breaking. I feel that I cannot
Bear this much longer before I break altogether.’
‘Perhaps that is what He is waiting for:
A broken heart and a contrite spirit.’
‘It is always ‘perhaps,’ isn’t it?
I never seem to know for sure.
I need to know how much longer
I must stay here.’
‘And what will you do once you know?’
‘If it is very soon, I shall cry in relief.
If it is not, I shall crumble in despair.
Nothing else seems to matter anymore.’
‘You must not give up hope, Adam!
Have there not been many signs
That your time is soon?
Have there not been many signs
Telling you that you don’t need to worry?’
‘My faith, perhaps, is not what it needs to be.
I have stumbled greatly. Now I doubt myself.’
‘Trust in God,’ she says to me. ‘He will make
Up the difference where you lack.’
‘I am trying to do so,’ I reply.
‘We are waiting for you when you are done.
Just keep trying for a little longer, and then
We shall be there to get you Home.’
‘Home,’ I sigh. ‘It is nearly impossible to wait.’
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Word Club Part Two
Jim stared a moment longer at the computer screen, then sat back and rubbed his eyes.
‘Ben, do you want anything? I need a break.’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a couple glazed, Jim. Thanks.’
‘Alright.’
Jim made his way out of his cubicle, heading toward the coffee table and thinking.
I haven’t been able to focus on much of anything today. The smallest noise seemed to distract him lately. It had been growing all week, and today he could scarcely think straight.
Jim sighed. It was time to rectify the situation.
I’ll call Janet at lunch. She’s been wanting to go back since the moment we left.
‘Here you go, Ben. Enjoy.’
‘Oh boy. Just what I needed. Thanks, Jim.’
‘No problem.’
I hope we don’t have a disease or something. Barely a week past and it’s all either of us can think about.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The bell jingled as the door opened.
‘Is that new?’ Jim wondered idly.
‘It wasn’t here last week,’ Janet replied.
They walked toward the front desk.
Rudy smiled brightly. ‘Welcome back to the Word Club, sir, madam. Would you like anything before you begin?’
‘I think we’re ready as is, Rudy. Thanks all the same, though.’
‘In that case, I will direct your attention to the large vault door set in the right hand wall just down the hallway behind me.’
‘A vault door, Rudy?’
‘Yes sir. Do you see it there?’
‘I do see it, yes.’
‘As with all things in this world we live in, the Word Club is in a state of constant change. Thus, the method of entering the inner world of the Word Club is also one of constant change.’
Jim and Janet both nodded.
‘I understand.’
‘That makes sense, Rudy.’
‘In order for you to enter the inner Word Club on your visit today, you will require both the practical application of the intellect you possess, and the unrestrained allowance of your intuition. It is these tools that allow true creativity to flow. Are you ready?’
‘Yes,’ they said together.
‘Then I will ask you to approach that vault door.’
Jim and Janet walked up to the doorframe.
‘And now it is up to you to find your way through it.’
They looked into each others eyes for a moment, and then smiled. Janet put her ear and her hand to the vault door. Jim began to turn the dial slowly.
‘Keep going, keep going…stop! Now back the other way, slowly… stop! Now to the right again…there!’ Janet paused, as though puzzled. ‘This has to be the strangest vault system ever made. I think we need to push the dial in.’
Jim shrugged. He pushed on the dial, and it began to recede into the door. Jim kept pushing, until there was a faint click, and then a great whoosh as the door swung inward away from them, into the inner Word Club.
For a moment both Janet and Jim simply stood in the doorway, breathing in the freshness of the air, their hearts becoming light with relief.
‘That was the longest week of my life, I think,’ Jim said, almost gasping the words.
‘I told you we needed to come back,’ Janet smiled.
‘You were right. I can breathe freely again.’
‘We can breathe freely again,’
‘Yes, we.’
Jim gently took her face in his hands. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘You have freed us again, dear lady. For so great a gift, I thank you.’
After a moment Janet gently ended the kiss. ‘Come, my love. Let us explore this wondrous world once more!’
And so they lost themselves in the glorious wild. Together they ran through endless fields, climbed the highest mountains, braved the thickest jungles, and swam the deepest rivers. Jim defended Janet from the wild animals that roamed the land. He learned to fight the bear, the wolf, and the mountain lion. Janet learned the lore of the plants, the grass and the trees, for at times Jim lay close to death after his battles, and Janet spent many days in nursing her fallen warrior back to health.
In their wanderings, they saw exotic creatures, strange beasts, and beautiful birds. It was a world filled with colors and tastes and smells that were new to them, and they eagerly immersed themselves in it.
They began to see other humans, far in the distance and out of earshot. Jim was certain they were seen, though they were not approached. But one day they came to a new change. Janet sensed it in the air when she awoke, and quickly she went to Jim and shook him. Jim opened his eyes.
‘What is it, my lady?’
‘My love, warriors approach. I feel their anger and desire for battle. They come for you.’
‘I will defend you, lady, as I have done before.’
‘They wish you to fight for them, not against them.’
Jim could see them now, sixty warriors cresting a near hill to the south. Within his heart, he felt the desire to fight. Jim looked in Janet’s hazel eyes. ‘I do not wish to leave you, my lady. Bid me stay and I will stay.’
Janet shook her head. ‘It is not for me to stay you, my love. I bid you go. I will be near.’
‘How can I go, lady, when my heart lies with you?’
‘I will always be near. It is in you to fight. Fight, but fight for love. Fight for love, and you will be stronger, and swifter, your energy greater, your battle-heart fiercer. Be strong, my love.’
Insistently, honey lips pressed against his own. Then Janet seemed to fade. The trees began to appear through her skin; Jim could see the faint outlines of the leaves behind her, the grass through the skin of her ankles, the long-stemmed flowers swaying gently in the breeze. First they were merely hints, and then strong outlines, and finally her body was all but gone, all but her eyes, still staring into his own. For a moment they gazed, then they, too, were gone as the war band began their ascent up the hill. They halted at the crest. Only the war chieftain walked further, who came within ten feet of where Jim stood.
He looked at Jim warily for a moment, then spoke. ‘We need your help, wild one. Our enemy will long be at our hearth-doors this season. You will be one with us. One in name, one in heart, one in anger, one in spirit, one in strength, one in power, one in war. Fight with us!’
‘I will fight with you.’
‘Ben, do you want anything? I need a break.’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a couple glazed, Jim. Thanks.’
‘Alright.’
Jim made his way out of his cubicle, heading toward the coffee table and thinking.
I haven’t been able to focus on much of anything today. The smallest noise seemed to distract him lately. It had been growing all week, and today he could scarcely think straight.
Jim sighed. It was time to rectify the situation.
I’ll call Janet at lunch. She’s been wanting to go back since the moment we left.
‘Here you go, Ben. Enjoy.’
‘Oh boy. Just what I needed. Thanks, Jim.’
‘No problem.’
I hope we don’t have a disease or something. Barely a week past and it’s all either of us can think about.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The bell jingled as the door opened.
‘Is that new?’ Jim wondered idly.
‘It wasn’t here last week,’ Janet replied.
They walked toward the front desk.
Rudy smiled brightly. ‘Welcome back to the Word Club, sir, madam. Would you like anything before you begin?’
‘I think we’re ready as is, Rudy. Thanks all the same, though.’
‘In that case, I will direct your attention to the large vault door set in the right hand wall just down the hallway behind me.’
‘A vault door, Rudy?’
‘Yes sir. Do you see it there?’
‘I do see it, yes.’
‘As with all things in this world we live in, the Word Club is in a state of constant change. Thus, the method of entering the inner world of the Word Club is also one of constant change.’
Jim and Janet both nodded.
‘I understand.’
‘That makes sense, Rudy.’
‘In order for you to enter the inner Word Club on your visit today, you will require both the practical application of the intellect you possess, and the unrestrained allowance of your intuition. It is these tools that allow true creativity to flow. Are you ready?’
‘Yes,’ they said together.
‘Then I will ask you to approach that vault door.’
Jim and Janet walked up to the doorframe.
‘And now it is up to you to find your way through it.’
They looked into each others eyes for a moment, and then smiled. Janet put her ear and her hand to the vault door. Jim began to turn the dial slowly.
‘Keep going, keep going…stop! Now back the other way, slowly… stop! Now to the right again…there!’ Janet paused, as though puzzled. ‘This has to be the strangest vault system ever made. I think we need to push the dial in.’
Jim shrugged. He pushed on the dial, and it began to recede into the door. Jim kept pushing, until there was a faint click, and then a great whoosh as the door swung inward away from them, into the inner Word Club.
For a moment both Janet and Jim simply stood in the doorway, breathing in the freshness of the air, their hearts becoming light with relief.
‘That was the longest week of my life, I think,’ Jim said, almost gasping the words.
‘I told you we needed to come back,’ Janet smiled.
‘You were right. I can breathe freely again.’
‘We can breathe freely again,’
‘Yes, we.’
Jim gently took her face in his hands. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘You have freed us again, dear lady. For so great a gift, I thank you.’
After a moment Janet gently ended the kiss. ‘Come, my love. Let us explore this wondrous world once more!’
And so they lost themselves in the glorious wild. Together they ran through endless fields, climbed the highest mountains, braved the thickest jungles, and swam the deepest rivers. Jim defended Janet from the wild animals that roamed the land. He learned to fight the bear, the wolf, and the mountain lion. Janet learned the lore of the plants, the grass and the trees, for at times Jim lay close to death after his battles, and Janet spent many days in nursing her fallen warrior back to health.
In their wanderings, they saw exotic creatures, strange beasts, and beautiful birds. It was a world filled with colors and tastes and smells that were new to them, and they eagerly immersed themselves in it.
They began to see other humans, far in the distance and out of earshot. Jim was certain they were seen, though they were not approached. But one day they came to a new change. Janet sensed it in the air when she awoke, and quickly she went to Jim and shook him. Jim opened his eyes.
‘What is it, my lady?’
‘My love, warriors approach. I feel their anger and desire for battle. They come for you.’
‘I will defend you, lady, as I have done before.’
‘They wish you to fight for them, not against them.’
Jim could see them now, sixty warriors cresting a near hill to the south. Within his heart, he felt the desire to fight. Jim looked in Janet’s hazel eyes. ‘I do not wish to leave you, my lady. Bid me stay and I will stay.’
Janet shook her head. ‘It is not for me to stay you, my love. I bid you go. I will be near.’
‘How can I go, lady, when my heart lies with you?’
‘I will always be near. It is in you to fight. Fight, but fight for love. Fight for love, and you will be stronger, and swifter, your energy greater, your battle-heart fiercer. Be strong, my love.’
Insistently, honey lips pressed against his own. Then Janet seemed to fade. The trees began to appear through her skin; Jim could see the faint outlines of the leaves behind her, the grass through the skin of her ankles, the long-stemmed flowers swaying gently in the breeze. First they were merely hints, and then strong outlines, and finally her body was all but gone, all but her eyes, still staring into his own. For a moment they gazed, then they, too, were gone as the war band began their ascent up the hill. They halted at the crest. Only the war chieftain walked further, who came within ten feet of where Jim stood.
He looked at Jim warily for a moment, then spoke. ‘We need your help, wild one. Our enemy will long be at our hearth-doors this season. You will be one with us. One in name, one in heart, one in anger, one in spirit, one in strength, one in power, one in war. Fight with us!’
‘I will fight with you.’
Monday, March 7, 2011
Untitled
Here I stand, ready, the cliff’s edge before my feet.
In my hands are the charred remains, the book of my heart.
Below are the cities wherein I have lived, prisoner in them all.
I am through; I will give the ghost of my love to the world
And then, I will give my soul
Slowly, I run the book, mere disconnected, blackened sheets in my hands
Pieces begin to fall. Tears fall with them; it always hurts to share myself.
In my hands are the charred remains, the book of my heart.
Below are the cities wherein I have lived, prisoner in them all.
I am through; I will give the ghost of my love to the world
And then, I will give my soul
Slowly, I run the book, mere disconnected, blackened sheets in my hands
Pieces begin to fall. Tears fall with them; it always hurts to share myself.
Word Club
The Word Club, Part One
Jim peered up at the neon sign in puzzlement.
‘Janet honey, are you sure this is the right place?’
Janet looked at him askance. ‘Of course I’m sure. I entered ‘Breeding ground for the world’s most creative minds’ on the web, and this was top of the list. “A 24/7 symposium for all topics, genres, perspectives, persuasions, opinions, questions and answers relating to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, as interpreted by any patrons past, present, and future.’”
‘Past, present, and future? How can they possibly-’
‘If we’re going to try this, Jim, we have to take it on their terms.’
‘They? Who’s ‘they?’’
‘The creators of this place. They refer to themselves as The Perpetuators. Not the most engaging title, I admit.’
‘Sounds a bit sophomoric to me.’
‘Like I said, we have to take it on their terms.’
‘Rather broad terms, I should think,’ Jim shrugged. ‘Ah well. Let’s go for it.’
The door swung smoothly in at Jim’s push.
‘Good evening, sir. Good evening, madam. My name is Rudy. Welcome to The Word Club, where every creative intelligence is welcome. While you are here, it will be necessary for you to abide by our rulebook.’
That’s very-
‘Blunt, sir. I realize it is, but it is imperative for your personal well-being that you do not cross the invisible threshold that runs throughout this establishment. I will now impart the rulebook to you.’
Did he just read my mind?
‘Section One, Subsection One, Regulations, Chapter One, Paragraph One, Rule One. “No patron or patrons will do anything, say anything, or create anything that has the potential to limit the creative juices in themselves and/ or other patrons with whom they may interact while within the perimeter of this, The Word Club.” That is the short version, sir, madam. The remainder of the Rulebook merely expounds upon the particulars which stem from the first rule. Should you be concerned that you will have surrendered your rights by agreeing to this rule, you are welcome to read over the entire rulebook when it is not in use.’ Rudy gestured to a dimly-lit table, set in an alcove to the couple’s right. A well dressed, balding man sat there, peering intently at the left page of what seemed to be an immense volume; so immense, that neither Janet nor Jim could see the end of it.
‘Is that a state senator? Our state senator?’ Jim asked, bewildered.
‘He doesn’t look very happy, does he? Why would the freedom to be creative make him unhappy?’
‘If I were to guess, madam, I would say that he is trying to find a loophole, by which he hopes to find plausible cause to shut down our little club here.’
‘Shut it down? But why?’
Rudy smiled amiably. ‘Doubtless that will become clear to you the more you visit and the longer you stay. If the first rule is sufficient for you, then, I direct your attention to the little white door at the end of the hall directly behind me. Once you find a way through that door, you are considered in complete harmony with the energies which fuel the creative spirit, which in turn fuels our entire operation.’
Operation?
‘Operation, process, endeavor, journey, and economy are some of the interchangeable terms. Each was, is, and will always be true.’
‘How are you reading my mind?’
‘Again, sir, that will become clear to you the more you visit and the longer you stay.’
Janet tugged gently on Jim’s arm. Jim gave a resigned sigh, and allowed himself to be steered down the hall to the little white door.
‘There’s no doorknob, Jim.’
Jim pushed. The little white door would not budge.
‘I think you were right, Janet. We’ll have to take it on their terms.’
They retreated a few steps.
‘Mmm. So what do we do?’
‘Rudy said ‘in complete harmony with the energies that fuel the creative spirit.’ I suppose the more creative we allow ourselves to be, the closer we come to complete harmony.’
Janet’s eyes seemed to lose their focus as she looked at him.
Jim was still musing on what it would take to be completely creative.
‘All creative geniuses, the ones whose creativity changes the world, believe that anything is possible, that our only limits are those we give ourselves, and that the way to succeed is thus to remove all our limitations.’
‘Jim! That’s it!’
‘We can do anything.’
‘So there are no real barriers!’
‘Which means that there is no door!’
An intense wave of euphoria swept over them. Hand in hand, they walked quickly to the door, kept walking, and passed through it as though it wasn’t there.
‘Because it isn’t,’ Janet smiled.
‘You’re reading my mind,’ Jim smiled back.
‘I like this place already.’
They both turned to look at the Word Club.
‘Whoa…’ Jim breathed.
Janet was momentarily speechless.
Before them lay an expanding panorama. Grass, flowers, and trees of all kinds grew rapidly before their eyes. Plains and mountains, plateaus and canyons, mighty rivers and beautiful streams as far as they could see.
And we can see as far as we want to, Jim.
Yes, and in as much detail as we want to!
Jim shook his head, struck by a thought. This is The Word Club?
Yes, sir. This is a club where words come alive.
Rudy? Is that you?
Yes, sir. I am part of the Word Club, after all.
Jim peered up at the neon sign in puzzlement.
‘Janet honey, are you sure this is the right place?’
Janet looked at him askance. ‘Of course I’m sure. I entered ‘Breeding ground for the world’s most creative minds’ on the web, and this was top of the list. “A 24/7 symposium for all topics, genres, perspectives, persuasions, opinions, questions and answers relating to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, as interpreted by any patrons past, present, and future.’”
‘Past, present, and future? How can they possibly-’
‘If we’re going to try this, Jim, we have to take it on their terms.’
‘They? Who’s ‘they?’’
‘The creators of this place. They refer to themselves as The Perpetuators. Not the most engaging title, I admit.’
‘Sounds a bit sophomoric to me.’
‘Like I said, we have to take it on their terms.’
‘Rather broad terms, I should think,’ Jim shrugged. ‘Ah well. Let’s go for it.’
The door swung smoothly in at Jim’s push.
‘Good evening, sir. Good evening, madam. My name is Rudy. Welcome to The Word Club, where every creative intelligence is welcome. While you are here, it will be necessary for you to abide by our rulebook.’
That’s very-
‘Blunt, sir. I realize it is, but it is imperative for your personal well-being that you do not cross the invisible threshold that runs throughout this establishment. I will now impart the rulebook to you.’
Did he just read my mind?
‘Section One, Subsection One, Regulations, Chapter One, Paragraph One, Rule One. “No patron or patrons will do anything, say anything, or create anything that has the potential to limit the creative juices in themselves and/ or other patrons with whom they may interact while within the perimeter of this, The Word Club.” That is the short version, sir, madam. The remainder of the Rulebook merely expounds upon the particulars which stem from the first rule. Should you be concerned that you will have surrendered your rights by agreeing to this rule, you are welcome to read over the entire rulebook when it is not in use.’ Rudy gestured to a dimly-lit table, set in an alcove to the couple’s right. A well dressed, balding man sat there, peering intently at the left page of what seemed to be an immense volume; so immense, that neither Janet nor Jim could see the end of it.
‘Is that a state senator? Our state senator?’ Jim asked, bewildered.
‘He doesn’t look very happy, does he? Why would the freedom to be creative make him unhappy?’
‘If I were to guess, madam, I would say that he is trying to find a loophole, by which he hopes to find plausible cause to shut down our little club here.’
‘Shut it down? But why?’
Rudy smiled amiably. ‘Doubtless that will become clear to you the more you visit and the longer you stay. If the first rule is sufficient for you, then, I direct your attention to the little white door at the end of the hall directly behind me. Once you find a way through that door, you are considered in complete harmony with the energies which fuel the creative spirit, which in turn fuels our entire operation.’
Operation?
‘Operation, process, endeavor, journey, and economy are some of the interchangeable terms. Each was, is, and will always be true.’
‘How are you reading my mind?’
‘Again, sir, that will become clear to you the more you visit and the longer you stay.’
Janet tugged gently on Jim’s arm. Jim gave a resigned sigh, and allowed himself to be steered down the hall to the little white door.
‘There’s no doorknob, Jim.’
Jim pushed. The little white door would not budge.
‘I think you were right, Janet. We’ll have to take it on their terms.’
They retreated a few steps.
‘Mmm. So what do we do?’
‘Rudy said ‘in complete harmony with the energies that fuel the creative spirit.’ I suppose the more creative we allow ourselves to be, the closer we come to complete harmony.’
Janet’s eyes seemed to lose their focus as she looked at him.
Jim was still musing on what it would take to be completely creative.
‘All creative geniuses, the ones whose creativity changes the world, believe that anything is possible, that our only limits are those we give ourselves, and that the way to succeed is thus to remove all our limitations.’
‘Jim! That’s it!’
‘We can do anything.’
‘So there are no real barriers!’
‘Which means that there is no door!’
An intense wave of euphoria swept over them. Hand in hand, they walked quickly to the door, kept walking, and passed through it as though it wasn’t there.
‘Because it isn’t,’ Janet smiled.
‘You’re reading my mind,’ Jim smiled back.
‘I like this place already.’
They both turned to look at the Word Club.
‘Whoa…’ Jim breathed.
Janet was momentarily speechless.
Before them lay an expanding panorama. Grass, flowers, and trees of all kinds grew rapidly before their eyes. Plains and mountains, plateaus and canyons, mighty rivers and beautiful streams as far as they could see.
And we can see as far as we want to, Jim.
Yes, and in as much detail as we want to!
Jim shook his head, struck by a thought. This is The Word Club?
Yes, sir. This is a club where words come alive.
Rudy? Is that you?
Yes, sir. I am part of the Word Club, after all.
8:06 PM
Miracles bursting before One Poet's eyes. She has my Lily's Hazel Eyes; those eyes that shined like diamond's long ago...
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Betwixt Light and Dark: My War and the Battalions I Face
*Read by the song-
The Final Countdown by Europe
The desert valley lay peaceful beneath a cloud-swept sky. To the east and west, the canyon walls loomed steep and high, their smooth slopes too sheer for any but the most fearless horse master to descend. To the south, the waves of the blue-green sea tossed themselves high; crashing into the cliffs that barred their way. To the north, far off in the distance, a travelling warrior could glimpse great mountains if his gaze were piercing, unclouded, and keen. Few warriors had such a gaze, for though many roamed in these areas of the wild, alone or with his or her war band, there had never yet a rumor spread of a battler with the name of Warrior- seer. Days when such souls had dwelt in this land were long past.
Tales were told of the deeds the Warrior- seers had done in those ages. There were many of the old men who held the younger generations captive with their stories of estranged lovers brought together again after years apart. Travelling warrior scholars regaled their spell-bound listeners with tales of entire mountain ranges brought into being with a single word spoken, of oceans and rivers that ceased to flow simply to allow a seer to pass, of days that lasted longer than their allotted two dozen hours, days when the sun stood still. Days when the battles fought therein found the fighters on both sides lying on their faces, too exhausted and faint from the blood they had lost, because of a day when the daylight never waned. Days when entire villages were laid low by fierce storms of a fury that had never been seen before. Days when every law that dictated the ways of Lady Nature was disobeyed.
Though the Warrior- seers were no longer to be found, the times were such that they were in the forefront of the minds of all people. War bands roamed freely across the land. Those who dared to settle in one place and build a village did so with the fragile hope that a war band would not come across they and their kinsfolk; the only hope free people had of surviving such encounters was their acceptance into the band and their own fighting savvy; if they could defeat the war band’s fiercest warrior in one on one combat, they and their kinsfolk were made part of the band. They were required to abandon their village, their traditions, their trades, and their dreams, to fight for the war band against every other, with their every breath. The idea of family, of brother and sister, mother and daughter, father and son, of cousins and uncles and aunts and other kinsfolk, was severed the moment a soul entered their band. From that moment on, a soul, whether male or female, was given to the unrestrained bloodshed of his or her enemy. The old and feeble did not survive long once they were made one of the band. If they were fortunate, they passed into the void within a week, the toils and struggles of the band overcoming their minimal strength. Their bodies were left unburied, their remains left victim to Lady Nature and the beasts that roamed the land.
The young were drawn immediately into conflict, those who were already part of the band teaching them the art of war from the moment of entry. Regardless of age, children were given the harsh tools of battle. The thick leather clothing, the armored helms, breastplates, leg and arm shields, were thrust before their impressionable young eyes. Metals of all kinds composed the armor they chose from. Steel, aluminum, tin, bronze, copper, silver, gold, nickel, titanium. The weapons arrayed before them likewise were of every metal imaginable; swords both curved or straight, spears short or long, maces with metal-spiked balls swung on chains or with heavy heads set on a solid shaft. The children were taught in the most practical and realistic setting available: in mortal combat with each other. The gentle toys and games enjoyed in the villages they left behind were replaced by the weapons and battles their war band gave to them in the stead of what they had known before. Though free people still lived in numerous areas and had many places of retreat and resort, each of them could feel the proverbial walls of eternal war closing in upon them.
Many of the free people, to survive in a world that was becoming more and more defined by war, bloodshed, bondage, and death, formed travelling villages; free people learned by the harsh realities of nomad life how to defend themselves against the war bands. Every member of the families and kinships that made up their people were bound together by necessity, by the ties of common blood, by the love between each other, by their hatred of the bloodthirsty animals that the members of the war bands became, and most importantly by the kidnapping of their precious children. Fear of the war bands, which in the beginning of their formation had caused people of the free world to flee, to hide, and to pray to their gods for deliverance, was changed almost overnight once free people headed out onto the trail they would make by the pounding of their own feet. Those feet, already working together in the villages at their back, were made one by the rigors of the wild land they embraced.
When a free people met a war band upon the trail, the most bitter, bloody, and decimating conflict took place. Free fighters freely bled, giving no quarter to the members of the war band. Those of the band, equal to the free fighters in battle and more powerful in their darkness and weaponry, sought to destroy them; dividing their numbers by their own, pitting their dark children against the home- bred, sun- taught youth of the free fighters, the war bands inevitably prevailed in such conflicts. They did not, however, succeed in their purpose of integrating the surviving free fighters into their band, for no free fighter ever survived. A free fighter would never surrender; every last one fought to his or her death. Because of this choice of the free fighters, the war band was destroyed at its heart. No dark warrior could remain with others of his or her kind after being pierced by the light that dwelt in a free fighter’s indomitable heart.
Free people everywhere knew in their souls that they were standing on the cusp of the most terrible battle that they and their kin and every free fighter everywhere would face.
The battle for the preservation of their right to choose whether or not they would take another breath.
. . . . . . . . . .
It has been two centuries and one half since the time that I walked among the sons and daughters of Man. I have seen births and deaths innumerable. I have seen the hearts of mothers break, and the strength of fathers fail. I have seen sons thrust out as innocent thieves from the place they called home, to seek humble shelter among those few they knew out in the cold world. I have seen daughters unwittingly abused because of the lack of understanding their abusers had of who they were: precious daughters of the God above their cursed heads. My own Brothers have fled this land, for they have lost their hope that this wretched world can yet be saved from the chains that bind it fast; chains whose ending lies in the hand of him who is the enemy of all of God’s children. Those who yet serve the light in this area of the earth are vastly outnumbered by our enemy’s
adopted children, children who once belonged to our dwindling ranks. Children whose darkening souls are being taught by our enemy to hate the light that gave them birth.
I myself am one of them. The darkness in my soul is deeper than that of any other man; the abuse I have received at others’ hands and dealt back again is harsher and more heartless than the abuse suffered by daughters of God upon this earth. The light that I have known is brighter than the noonday sun; I can no longer gaze upon it and receive no harm as I once did. My eyes are no longer the pure oracles they once were. I have embraced the light and turned and walked away more times than an immortal mind such as my own can recall. I have been immersed in God’s light and buried beneath the enemy’s dark chains. I cannot die unless I so choose, and yet the endless stretches of time before my eyes, eyes that are both piercing, unclouded, and keen, hold no answers for me of what I should do. I cannot choose between light and dark, for both hold priceless treasures for me. Both make up a vital, irrevocable half of whom and what I am. I do not see evil in the darkness; I see the desire of God’s children to experience the wonders of this world in all their unshielded, unfiltered, natural, breathtaking, soul shaking, brutally honest splendor.
I see heaven’s light in my enemy’s darkness. I cannot choose between them, for they have become one and the same.
Here I sit, in the center of my wind swept valley, canyon walls before and behind. The sea is far away to my left; its waves I have sailed, its winds and storms I have survived, its ebbs and flows I have committed to my memory. I am caught at the center of them all.
Hills and vales, small mountains and great mountains and razor sharp peaks I see in the far distance to my right. No sweet singing birds fly overhead to ease my wandering heart’s song. No desert or mountain animals scurry around me among the tufts of grass and rocks and desert trees scattered throughout this place. No living creatures live within miles, though the climate and natural food available for them abounds. It does not look it to the naked eye, but to such eyes as mine, eyes touched by God’s own hand, I see the innumerable hosts of men who have died here, battles and wars of every kind and by every people. It is in this place that every soul comes to die, for it is not a battlefield for legions of trained soldiers, or hosts of the roaming horse people, nor yet for the hosts of light and dark whose paths will soon bring them here, to face each other as two fully fledged hosts, born and bred in exact opposition to each other. Their very nature compels them to seek each other’s total annihilation.
This is the battlefield where souls are saved from the darkness and embraced by the light, or where those souls are overcome by the darkness to become servants of our common enemy.
And so here I wait, standing upon the eve of the day when these powerful forces shall meet, upon the spot where I now stand, to bring the human race to an end. My task, which I have awaited two and a half centuries to complete, is impossible for any but the most impossible of Warrior- seers, impossible for their acceptance of all things in opposition, impossible for all seers save one.
Impossible for any save the Warrior- seer who dared to take both into his broken heart long ago in the hopes that such forces, brought together, would join to create a place where opposites would dwell in peace.
The Warrior- seer who, depending upon the People’s choice of life or death, war or peace, love or hate, will end this conflict forever. Either they will swear by their eternal souls to cease their warring, lay down the weapons of death they carry, accept the truth that their opponents have as much worth as they themselves do, and become one, or I will take my own weapon up again, and fulfill the heartbreakingly bittersweet fate it was destined for. It will break my already broken heart. It will never be mended again; shattered for eternity by the task required at its own cost.
My weapon shall be wielded against them, and by my own immortal hand will I end this eternal conflict.
I will slaughter them all. And in destroying forces whose essence I am, I will slaughter myself.
My own heart. My own life. My own immortal soul sacrificed to bring to pass the world’s ending.
On the morrow it will be done.
. . . . . . . . . . .
The patriarch laid his hands, one by one, upon each father’s shoulders. The fathers, gathered all round him, turned from him as soon as they felt his touch, to return to their kinships.
Every kinship stood in readiness for the fathers to return and give the word that it was time. Every family was gathered, mothers, sons and daughters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and second cousins and adopted members and in- laws, waiting upon the word to move out.
The news had traveled among the kinships, slowly at first but with increasing speed, that their enemies were gathering into one great horde of bloodthirsty savages, that they intended to fall upon them as one and wipe them from the face of the earth. Runners had been sent throughout the land from kinship to kinship, bidding all who desired to retain their rights and privileges, and to keep their families intact, to gather together in the great valley that lay at the roughly central point between the war bands’ territory and their own. The kinships who owned horses and other saddle worthy beasts were already gathering at the valley’s western edge. The rest of the kinships would be travelling all that day, and some through the night, to join their friends and fellow sufferers in one last bitter, bloody, life stealing battle against their common enemy. They would exercise their power, the power that had been handed down from their father Adam, untold ages of time long gone past. By the power that bound them together, inside and outside of time, they would stand against their enemies, outnumbered by more than one thousand to one, and fight. Their chances of surviving the conflict hinged upon one slim thread. The same thread that held the very earth they would stand upon in one piece. The same thread by which their fathers had stopped the waters from flowing. The same thread that had returned the breath to the dead man’s lungs, and removed mountains out of their place, and carried villages whole into the whirlwinds to return no more. The thread upon which the world and everything that lives in it and on it hangs.
The single, slender, simple thread of faith.
The Final Countdown by Europe
The desert valley lay peaceful beneath a cloud-swept sky. To the east and west, the canyon walls loomed steep and high, their smooth slopes too sheer for any but the most fearless horse master to descend. To the south, the waves of the blue-green sea tossed themselves high; crashing into the cliffs that barred their way. To the north, far off in the distance, a travelling warrior could glimpse great mountains if his gaze were piercing, unclouded, and keen. Few warriors had such a gaze, for though many roamed in these areas of the wild, alone or with his or her war band, there had never yet a rumor spread of a battler with the name of Warrior- seer. Days when such souls had dwelt in this land were long past.
Tales were told of the deeds the Warrior- seers had done in those ages. There were many of the old men who held the younger generations captive with their stories of estranged lovers brought together again after years apart. Travelling warrior scholars regaled their spell-bound listeners with tales of entire mountain ranges brought into being with a single word spoken, of oceans and rivers that ceased to flow simply to allow a seer to pass, of days that lasted longer than their allotted two dozen hours, days when the sun stood still. Days when the battles fought therein found the fighters on both sides lying on their faces, too exhausted and faint from the blood they had lost, because of a day when the daylight never waned. Days when entire villages were laid low by fierce storms of a fury that had never been seen before. Days when every law that dictated the ways of Lady Nature was disobeyed.
Though the Warrior- seers were no longer to be found, the times were such that they were in the forefront of the minds of all people. War bands roamed freely across the land. Those who dared to settle in one place and build a village did so with the fragile hope that a war band would not come across they and their kinsfolk; the only hope free people had of surviving such encounters was their acceptance into the band and their own fighting savvy; if they could defeat the war band’s fiercest warrior in one on one combat, they and their kinsfolk were made part of the band. They were required to abandon their village, their traditions, their trades, and their dreams, to fight for the war band against every other, with their every breath. The idea of family, of brother and sister, mother and daughter, father and son, of cousins and uncles and aunts and other kinsfolk, was severed the moment a soul entered their band. From that moment on, a soul, whether male or female, was given to the unrestrained bloodshed of his or her enemy. The old and feeble did not survive long once they were made one of the band. If they were fortunate, they passed into the void within a week, the toils and struggles of the band overcoming their minimal strength. Their bodies were left unburied, their remains left victim to Lady Nature and the beasts that roamed the land.
The young were drawn immediately into conflict, those who were already part of the band teaching them the art of war from the moment of entry. Regardless of age, children were given the harsh tools of battle. The thick leather clothing, the armored helms, breastplates, leg and arm shields, were thrust before their impressionable young eyes. Metals of all kinds composed the armor they chose from. Steel, aluminum, tin, bronze, copper, silver, gold, nickel, titanium. The weapons arrayed before them likewise were of every metal imaginable; swords both curved or straight, spears short or long, maces with metal-spiked balls swung on chains or with heavy heads set on a solid shaft. The children were taught in the most practical and realistic setting available: in mortal combat with each other. The gentle toys and games enjoyed in the villages they left behind were replaced by the weapons and battles their war band gave to them in the stead of what they had known before. Though free people still lived in numerous areas and had many places of retreat and resort, each of them could feel the proverbial walls of eternal war closing in upon them.
Many of the free people, to survive in a world that was becoming more and more defined by war, bloodshed, bondage, and death, formed travelling villages; free people learned by the harsh realities of nomad life how to defend themselves against the war bands. Every member of the families and kinships that made up their people were bound together by necessity, by the ties of common blood, by the love between each other, by their hatred of the bloodthirsty animals that the members of the war bands became, and most importantly by the kidnapping of their precious children. Fear of the war bands, which in the beginning of their formation had caused people of the free world to flee, to hide, and to pray to their gods for deliverance, was changed almost overnight once free people headed out onto the trail they would make by the pounding of their own feet. Those feet, already working together in the villages at their back, were made one by the rigors of the wild land they embraced.
When a free people met a war band upon the trail, the most bitter, bloody, and decimating conflict took place. Free fighters freely bled, giving no quarter to the members of the war band. Those of the band, equal to the free fighters in battle and more powerful in their darkness and weaponry, sought to destroy them; dividing their numbers by their own, pitting their dark children against the home- bred, sun- taught youth of the free fighters, the war bands inevitably prevailed in such conflicts. They did not, however, succeed in their purpose of integrating the surviving free fighters into their band, for no free fighter ever survived. A free fighter would never surrender; every last one fought to his or her death. Because of this choice of the free fighters, the war band was destroyed at its heart. No dark warrior could remain with others of his or her kind after being pierced by the light that dwelt in a free fighter’s indomitable heart.
Free people everywhere knew in their souls that they were standing on the cusp of the most terrible battle that they and their kin and every free fighter everywhere would face.
The battle for the preservation of their right to choose whether or not they would take another breath.
. . . . . . . . . .
It has been two centuries and one half since the time that I walked among the sons and daughters of Man. I have seen births and deaths innumerable. I have seen the hearts of mothers break, and the strength of fathers fail. I have seen sons thrust out as innocent thieves from the place they called home, to seek humble shelter among those few they knew out in the cold world. I have seen daughters unwittingly abused because of the lack of understanding their abusers had of who they were: precious daughters of the God above their cursed heads. My own Brothers have fled this land, for they have lost their hope that this wretched world can yet be saved from the chains that bind it fast; chains whose ending lies in the hand of him who is the enemy of all of God’s children. Those who yet serve the light in this area of the earth are vastly outnumbered by our enemy’s
adopted children, children who once belonged to our dwindling ranks. Children whose darkening souls are being taught by our enemy to hate the light that gave them birth.
I myself am one of them. The darkness in my soul is deeper than that of any other man; the abuse I have received at others’ hands and dealt back again is harsher and more heartless than the abuse suffered by daughters of God upon this earth. The light that I have known is brighter than the noonday sun; I can no longer gaze upon it and receive no harm as I once did. My eyes are no longer the pure oracles they once were. I have embraced the light and turned and walked away more times than an immortal mind such as my own can recall. I have been immersed in God’s light and buried beneath the enemy’s dark chains. I cannot die unless I so choose, and yet the endless stretches of time before my eyes, eyes that are both piercing, unclouded, and keen, hold no answers for me of what I should do. I cannot choose between light and dark, for both hold priceless treasures for me. Both make up a vital, irrevocable half of whom and what I am. I do not see evil in the darkness; I see the desire of God’s children to experience the wonders of this world in all their unshielded, unfiltered, natural, breathtaking, soul shaking, brutally honest splendor.
I see heaven’s light in my enemy’s darkness. I cannot choose between them, for they have become one and the same.
Here I sit, in the center of my wind swept valley, canyon walls before and behind. The sea is far away to my left; its waves I have sailed, its winds and storms I have survived, its ebbs and flows I have committed to my memory. I am caught at the center of them all.
Hills and vales, small mountains and great mountains and razor sharp peaks I see in the far distance to my right. No sweet singing birds fly overhead to ease my wandering heart’s song. No desert or mountain animals scurry around me among the tufts of grass and rocks and desert trees scattered throughout this place. No living creatures live within miles, though the climate and natural food available for them abounds. It does not look it to the naked eye, but to such eyes as mine, eyes touched by God’s own hand, I see the innumerable hosts of men who have died here, battles and wars of every kind and by every people. It is in this place that every soul comes to die, for it is not a battlefield for legions of trained soldiers, or hosts of the roaming horse people, nor yet for the hosts of light and dark whose paths will soon bring them here, to face each other as two fully fledged hosts, born and bred in exact opposition to each other. Their very nature compels them to seek each other’s total annihilation.
This is the battlefield where souls are saved from the darkness and embraced by the light, or where those souls are overcome by the darkness to become servants of our common enemy.
And so here I wait, standing upon the eve of the day when these powerful forces shall meet, upon the spot where I now stand, to bring the human race to an end. My task, which I have awaited two and a half centuries to complete, is impossible for any but the most impossible of Warrior- seers, impossible for their acceptance of all things in opposition, impossible for all seers save one.
Impossible for any save the Warrior- seer who dared to take both into his broken heart long ago in the hopes that such forces, brought together, would join to create a place where opposites would dwell in peace.
The Warrior- seer who, depending upon the People’s choice of life or death, war or peace, love or hate, will end this conflict forever. Either they will swear by their eternal souls to cease their warring, lay down the weapons of death they carry, accept the truth that their opponents have as much worth as they themselves do, and become one, or I will take my own weapon up again, and fulfill the heartbreakingly bittersweet fate it was destined for. It will break my already broken heart. It will never be mended again; shattered for eternity by the task required at its own cost.
My weapon shall be wielded against them, and by my own immortal hand will I end this eternal conflict.
I will slaughter them all. And in destroying forces whose essence I am, I will slaughter myself.
My own heart. My own life. My own immortal soul sacrificed to bring to pass the world’s ending.
On the morrow it will be done.
. . . . . . . . . . .
The patriarch laid his hands, one by one, upon each father’s shoulders. The fathers, gathered all round him, turned from him as soon as they felt his touch, to return to their kinships.
Every kinship stood in readiness for the fathers to return and give the word that it was time. Every family was gathered, mothers, sons and daughters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and second cousins and adopted members and in- laws, waiting upon the word to move out.
The news had traveled among the kinships, slowly at first but with increasing speed, that their enemies were gathering into one great horde of bloodthirsty savages, that they intended to fall upon them as one and wipe them from the face of the earth. Runners had been sent throughout the land from kinship to kinship, bidding all who desired to retain their rights and privileges, and to keep their families intact, to gather together in the great valley that lay at the roughly central point between the war bands’ territory and their own. The kinships who owned horses and other saddle worthy beasts were already gathering at the valley’s western edge. The rest of the kinships would be travelling all that day, and some through the night, to join their friends and fellow sufferers in one last bitter, bloody, life stealing battle against their common enemy. They would exercise their power, the power that had been handed down from their father Adam, untold ages of time long gone past. By the power that bound them together, inside and outside of time, they would stand against their enemies, outnumbered by more than one thousand to one, and fight. Their chances of surviving the conflict hinged upon one slim thread. The same thread that held the very earth they would stand upon in one piece. The same thread by which their fathers had stopped the waters from flowing. The same thread that had returned the breath to the dead man’s lungs, and removed mountains out of their place, and carried villages whole into the whirlwinds to return no more. The thread upon which the world and everything that lives in it and on it hangs.
The single, slender, simple thread of faith.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
It Is Time
‘It is time to write your story,’ they say to me.
‘So many need to hear it for themselves.
They need to hear about all that has happened
To you, from the time you were an infant to the time
Of now, when you have so much desire to come Home.
Will you not share your story with others?’
‘I have shared it,’ I tell them.
‘With every poem I write, with every tale I tell,
With every song I sing, I have shared my story.’
‘Keep sharing it,’ they urge me.
‘I can’t. I have tried sharing it for far too long.
It is time for my story to have an ending,
And then it will be time, at last, for others
To pick up the threads.’
‘So many need to hear it for themselves.
They need to hear about all that has happened
To you, from the time you were an infant to the time
Of now, when you have so much desire to come Home.
Will you not share your story with others?’
‘I have shared it,’ I tell them.
‘With every poem I write, with every tale I tell,
With every song I sing, I have shared my story.’
‘Keep sharing it,’ they urge me.
‘I can’t. I have tried sharing it for far too long.
It is time for my story to have an ending,
And then it will be time, at last, for others
To pick up the threads.’
My Tongue is Bound
My tongue is bound, I cannot speak.
My power is all but gone.
My pen is broken, the ink all fled.
My talent is moving on.
My voice is cracked, my song has left.
I never again shall sing.
I long only for a lonely
Bell for me to ring.
There’s nothing left that I can do,
I feel it more each day.
I cannot find the strength
To even walk into the fray.
I do not know what my Lord
Shall say to me someday
When all I want for now is
To run and hide away.
And yet I hope, even as I
Cower in nameless dread
That He will someday place
A pierced hand on my plain head
And say, ‘It wasn’t easy
But you’ve made it Home forever.
Just take my hand,
We will all now be together.’
My power is all but gone.
My pen is broken, the ink all fled.
My talent is moving on.
My voice is cracked, my song has left.
I never again shall sing.
I long only for a lonely
Bell for me to ring.
There’s nothing left that I can do,
I feel it more each day.
I cannot find the strength
To even walk into the fray.
I do not know what my Lord
Shall say to me someday
When all I want for now is
To run and hide away.
And yet I hope, even as I
Cower in nameless dread
That He will someday place
A pierced hand on my plain head
And say, ‘It wasn’t easy
But you’ve made it Home forever.
Just take my hand,
We will all now be together.’
Help Me
‘Help me, good friends,’ I say to them.
‘Help me to stay near the light.
I have nearly given all I have;
I can hardly even fight.
I no longer want to give it my all;
I no longer want to try.
Help me to somehow stay on the path.
Help me, please,’ I cry.
‘I have felt that my time is now,
And yet I am still here.
Help me to walk these last few steps;
Help me to conquer my fear.
Help me to make it back to my home,
Where I so wish to be.
Help me to shake these shackles away;
Help me to become free.
Help me, O help me to give it my all
Even though now it’s true
All I want is to hear the call,
‘It’s over now, you’re through!’
I need your help as never before.
I need you to carry me on.
I need your light and your life as my own.
I need you to help make me strong.
Help me to walk when my strength is no more.
Help me to fight through the pain.
Help me to keep my face to the fore.
That I may realize the gain.
Help me to try when I am done trying.
Help me to run while I’m weak.
Help me to live when the grave’s solace
Is truly all that I seek.
Help me to finish my wandering course.
Help me be finished now.
Help me, that those who hear my full tale
Will someday say ‘Wow.’
Help me to be a hero again,
A force for good on the earth.
Help me to see through my Savior’s eyes
The lesson of how much I’m worth.’
‘Help me to stay near the light.
I have nearly given all I have;
I can hardly even fight.
I no longer want to give it my all;
I no longer want to try.
Help me to somehow stay on the path.
Help me, please,’ I cry.
‘I have felt that my time is now,
And yet I am still here.
Help me to walk these last few steps;
Help me to conquer my fear.
Help me to make it back to my home,
Where I so wish to be.
Help me to shake these shackles away;
Help me to become free.
Help me, O help me to give it my all
Even though now it’s true
All I want is to hear the call,
‘It’s over now, you’re through!’
I need your help as never before.
I need you to carry me on.
I need your light and your life as my own.
I need you to help make me strong.
Help me to walk when my strength is no more.
Help me to fight through the pain.
Help me to keep my face to the fore.
That I may realize the gain.
Help me to try when I am done trying.
Help me to run while I’m weak.
Help me to live when the grave’s solace
Is truly all that I seek.
Help me to finish my wandering course.
Help me be finished now.
Help me, that those who hear my full tale
Will someday say ‘Wow.’
Help me to be a hero again,
A force for good on the earth.
Help me to see through my Savior’s eyes
The lesson of how much I’m worth.’
Embraced
At the end of my rope, I’ve naught more to give.
One foot in front of the other.
If I keep moving, I continue to live,
Here among my sisters, my brothers.
All round me they stand, but I feel them no more.
My spirit is trying to leave.
I have given all I have to give.
It is difficult to believe.
The moment arrives,
I will leave! I’ll be gone!
No longer to frequent this place.
Then an angel rushes to my side
And folds me within her embrace.
Ah! I am gasping! Her love is so strong,
It washes over my soul.
Balm to my hurts, my gaping wounds,
In an effort to make them all whole.
Still on my cliff’s edge, for I cannot leave,
I view the abyss below.
‘I feel my time at last has come.
Please!’ I say, ‘Let me go…’
‘Thousands of prayers have reached to heaven
To keep you strong and steady.
Now your time has nearly come,
But you are just not ready!’
‘Then woe is me! I cannot find
A reason to want to stay.
I have fought the fight for all my life.
I am immersed, even now, in the fray.
But my strength is gone, my heart is dark
And I have not the will to fight.’
‘Then I shall hold on to you,’ she says
‘Until you are filled again with light!’
One foot in front of the other.
If I keep moving, I continue to live,
Here among my sisters, my brothers.
All round me they stand, but I feel them no more.
My spirit is trying to leave.
I have given all I have to give.
It is difficult to believe.
The moment arrives,
I will leave! I’ll be gone!
No longer to frequent this place.
Then an angel rushes to my side
And folds me within her embrace.
Ah! I am gasping! Her love is so strong,
It washes over my soul.
Balm to my hurts, my gaping wounds,
In an effort to make them all whole.
Still on my cliff’s edge, for I cannot leave,
I view the abyss below.
‘I feel my time at last has come.
Please!’ I say, ‘Let me go…’
‘Thousands of prayers have reached to heaven
To keep you strong and steady.
Now your time has nearly come,
But you are just not ready!’
‘Then woe is me! I cannot find
A reason to want to stay.
I have fought the fight for all my life.
I am immersed, even now, in the fray.
But my strength is gone, my heart is dark
And I have not the will to fight.’
‘Then I shall hold on to you,’ she says
‘Until you are filled again with light!’
Monday, December 6, 2010
The Dreamer Part Thirteen
The battle raged on. Adialon’s strength grew with every foe slaughtered. His every muscle gave its all, his sinews waxed and waned in perfect balance with his breath, and still his enemies rushed upon him, attacking with ever increasing ferocity. The Warrior was much too engulfed by the battle rage within him to realize that thousands opposed him; there was no end to the hordes pouring into the valley. By that same battle rage that consumed him, Adialon had no memory of what had transpired before the great conflict had begun; nor indeed could he recall its beginning- he was fighting a war that was eternal.
Adialon rejoiced in his heart at the marvelous untamed energy that flowed through him. His enemies feared him so greatly; they fled at every battle cry that burst from his lips. And with a word he summoned them back, and they would turn and rush upon him again, as though they could not disobey the command.
He received endless wounds. By the blades that rose against him, by the weapons that writhed about him at every side, by the hate fueling his enemies’ thrusts, Adialon was pierced at every turn. And at every turn, he would turn again, and unleash a still greater outpouring of their blood. The Warrior inhaled the scent of that blood, and thus his rage grew ever stronger.
‘This is impossible! He cannot still fight us; he is covered in his own blood!’
‘Then we must use greater weapons against him. He cannot prevail against us, for there is no warrior that can withstand the beast that we have bred for decades past. Summon the witch and her pet!’
‘Yes, sir!’ the soldier said sharply. He saluted the commander, then turned and mounted his charger.
‘Giddyap!’ he screamed harshly, kicking the charger with his sharp silver spurs. The animal reared in pain, its hooves beating the icy air. Cruelly the soldier kicked the animal again, laughing at his absolute control over the dumb beast. At the soldier’s third blow, the animal galloped forward, nostrils flared and sides heaving, flying ever faster as his master continued to cut into him.
The soldier laughed again.
Adialon rejoiced in his heart at the marvelous untamed energy that flowed through him. His enemies feared him so greatly; they fled at every battle cry that burst from his lips. And with a word he summoned them back, and they would turn and rush upon him again, as though they could not disobey the command.
He received endless wounds. By the blades that rose against him, by the weapons that writhed about him at every side, by the hate fueling his enemies’ thrusts, Adialon was pierced at every turn. And at every turn, he would turn again, and unleash a still greater outpouring of their blood. The Warrior inhaled the scent of that blood, and thus his rage grew ever stronger.
‘This is impossible! He cannot still fight us; he is covered in his own blood!’
‘Then we must use greater weapons against him. He cannot prevail against us, for there is no warrior that can withstand the beast that we have bred for decades past. Summon the witch and her pet!’
‘Yes, sir!’ the soldier said sharply. He saluted the commander, then turned and mounted his charger.
‘Giddyap!’ he screamed harshly, kicking the charger with his sharp silver spurs. The animal reared in pain, its hooves beating the icy air. Cruelly the soldier kicked the animal again, laughing at his absolute control over the dumb beast. At the soldier’s third blow, the animal galloped forward, nostrils flared and sides heaving, flying ever faster as his master continued to cut into him.
The soldier laughed again.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
The Dreamer Part Twelve
Adialon crested the hill first. As he took in the battle taking place below, his anger began to swell.
‘Wait,’ the Boy said sharply.
Adialon looked over at him.
‘Why do you halt on the verge of destruction, Boy?’ he said angrily. ‘I fight now! They shall not prevail against me; I shall sweep them aside as though they were autumn leaves before the north wind!’
‘This war is ours to fight, Adialon,’ said the Boy bluntly. ‘We are born to fight together. Take your sword, warrior!’
Adialon gasped in astonishment.
There in the Boy’s hand was his magnificent weapon, blazing brilliant gold as it had before, in the instant he had lost it so long ago.
Adialon reached out to take it. Silently, the Boy placed it in his waiting hand.
And thus it begins anew!
Adialon tore down the hillside, the sharp rocks and treacherous frozen ice powerless to slow him or make him fall. Within his breast, the war cry was kindled once again, and began to build as he rushed toward his enemies.
The Boy’s pure green eyes followed him, knowing all that burned in Adialon’s heart, knowing the power that emanated from Adialon’s keen, battle-trained mind; knowing that nothing would or could stop him now.
Adialon would fight a new battle, armed with his ancient, powerful weapon, against an enemy that had defeated him time and time again. But the heart that had fought and lost those battles of old was now new. It was more powerful than it had ever been before, and it would never surrender.
And so it would never fail.
The Boy’s pure green eyes gazed upon the war below. He knew the part he was to play in this dance of death and glory. He had spoken the truth, he and Adialon were born to fight together. But whereas Adialon would be numb to the pain of his many wounds, he, the Boy, would be given wounds innumerable. And he would feel every one.
‘Wait,’ the Boy said sharply.
Adialon looked over at him.
‘Why do you halt on the verge of destruction, Boy?’ he said angrily. ‘I fight now! They shall not prevail against me; I shall sweep them aside as though they were autumn leaves before the north wind!’
‘This war is ours to fight, Adialon,’ said the Boy bluntly. ‘We are born to fight together. Take your sword, warrior!’
Adialon gasped in astonishment.
There in the Boy’s hand was his magnificent weapon, blazing brilliant gold as it had before, in the instant he had lost it so long ago.
Adialon reached out to take it. Silently, the Boy placed it in his waiting hand.
And thus it begins anew!
Adialon tore down the hillside, the sharp rocks and treacherous frozen ice powerless to slow him or make him fall. Within his breast, the war cry was kindled once again, and began to build as he rushed toward his enemies.
The Boy’s pure green eyes followed him, knowing all that burned in Adialon’s heart, knowing the power that emanated from Adialon’s keen, battle-trained mind; knowing that nothing would or could stop him now.
Adialon would fight a new battle, armed with his ancient, powerful weapon, against an enemy that had defeated him time and time again. But the heart that had fought and lost those battles of old was now new. It was more powerful than it had ever been before, and it would never surrender.
And so it would never fail.
The Boy’s pure green eyes gazed upon the war below. He knew the part he was to play in this dance of death and glory. He had spoken the truth, he and Adialon were born to fight together. But whereas Adialon would be numb to the pain of his many wounds, he, the Boy, would be given wounds innumerable. And he would feel every one.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
The Dreamer Pt. Eleven
‘We come to the question I asked your friend, the one who was adamant in her claim that she was no angel,’ said Adialon. ‘Why do you tether yourself here on earth, when you so readily could depart for heaven? What holds you back?’
‘The same thing that holds you back- the fact that people need me here, and need us here,’ said the Boy.
‘But why? Is not God watching over all of us? Can He not watch over those we leave behind?’
‘Yes. But that’s not the only thing to think about. There are things that we might need to do still, part of our reason for coming here in the first place. Things that only we can do.’
‘And if we have done what we were sent here to do? What then?’
‘Then we just have to wait.’
Adialon shook his head. ‘I cannot wait, Boy. Every moment I stay longer makes me lose my mind all the more. I do not belong here.’
‘It’s true, Adialon. You don’t belong on planet earth. Neither do I. No one belongs here, because we were all sent here from somewhere else.’
‘From the heavens. From the dwelling place of God, yes.’
The Boy nodded pensively. ‘Is there no reason you can find to stay? No cause you would fight for, no lives you would save?’
Adialon shrugged. ‘I am more tired than I ever thought possible. The fight has nearly left me. I do not feel as though I have the strength to save more lives. And as for a cause, you have the gift of understanding and more besides. I would that you tell me true, have I not given my all to my cause?’
The Boy looked at him intently. ‘Yes, I think you have.’
‘Why, then, does God will me to stay here? What is my purpose now?’
‘You’re ready to go home, but maybe others aren’t ready for that yet.’
Adialon tensed. ‘Tell me that such is not true.’
‘But I am sure that your time is soon. I am almost willing to promise that it is.’
‘How can you be so certain? What knowledge has been imparted to you to tell you such as that?’
‘You’ve given him your heart, haven’t you? What else could that mean?’
‘Do you know all my secrets, Boy? How do you know all these things without seeming effort?’
‘That’s part of my ability. Part of my friends’ ability too.’
‘How did you come by this ability?’
‘I was born with the ability. My friends were given the ability later, after I had saved their lives.’
‘Was it in like manner as you saved mine, in the darkness?’
‘No. I saved their lives in our world and time, where the darkness is invisible.’
‘Will you tell me your tale? I am eager to hear it, for it seems that I must yet live for a time and I would sooner listen to an engaging story than sit alone to while away the time.’
The Boy looked at him for a few moments, lost in thought. Adialon waited patiently, for there was little else he could do. Perhaps the Boy would say no, for it could not be doubted that with abilities such as theirs, the Boy and his friends would have suffered greatly. A great mind and heart went together with great suffering. Unless the Boy had told his tale before, many times over, he doubted if doing so now would or could be done with ease.
‘Yes, I will tell you,’ the Boy said. ‘But my story, our story, can’t be told all at once. It will take a long time, so long that we will have to share it a piece at a time.’
‘We meaning you and your friends of light?’
‘Yes. Me and my friends of light.’
‘That would be well. Where are your friends? Can they be summoned quickly?’
‘They will come when it’s time to share their part in this story. Until then they’ll be doing other things.’
Adialon nodded. He had hoped that he would see the Boy’s companions sooner, but if such was not to be, he would wait patiently.
‘Where does this tale begin, then?’
‘It begins with the birth of a child with a special ability. The baby boy can sense the thoughts and emotions of others, even when very, very young. This is good to a point, because the baby can learn much more rapidly about the world around him. His parents are thrilled to have been given such a child for their own, and use everything they have to teach him all he can learn. But soon they find out there’s a problem with the young boy’s ability. He begins to soak up all the emotions and thoughts of everyone around him- both good and bad. It gets so bad that the boy slowly loses his ability to function normally. Everything he is feeling becomes too much for him to deal with. He slowly begins to progress toward a breakdown. His parents are very concerned, and know that they have to do something to save their very young son. They take him and many supplies and leave the city’-
‘What does this mean, city?’ asked Adialon.
‘It’s like a bunch of large villages put together,’ explained the Boy.
‘Ah. Please continue.’
‘They leave the city for the forest, where they live from now on. They spend the next few years there, where they learn to grow their own food and live in a shelter they make with their own hands, much like the people in your village do.’
‘Then, after a few more years of living in peace, the boy’s parents become sickened?’
‘Yes,’ the Boy said sadly. ‘Some unknown sickness or disease takes hold of them. They know, they can feel that they don’t have much time left, and they know the boy must stay in the forest, so they teach him all they can, and give him a special tool to defend himself against the darkness.’
‘What is this tool?’
‘It’s called the Ocular. With it the boy’s abilities are magnified. With it the boy can learn all he desires to learn- about the world around him, about other people, about himself.’
‘A powerful tool,’ observed Adialon.
‘Yes, it is. But since it’s so powerful, his parents make sure that it’s hidden. He can still use it; because of his abilities he’s always using it.’
‘But it is made secure against the event of its being discovered by those who would use it for ill purposes.’
‘Yes,’ the Boy said, nodding. ‘I know you can understand that very well.’
‘Indeed. But please continue.’
© 2010 by Adam Scott Campbell. All rights reserved.
‘The same thing that holds you back- the fact that people need me here, and need us here,’ said the Boy.
‘But why? Is not God watching over all of us? Can He not watch over those we leave behind?’
‘Yes. But that’s not the only thing to think about. There are things that we might need to do still, part of our reason for coming here in the first place. Things that only we can do.’
‘And if we have done what we were sent here to do? What then?’
‘Then we just have to wait.’
Adialon shook his head. ‘I cannot wait, Boy. Every moment I stay longer makes me lose my mind all the more. I do not belong here.’
‘It’s true, Adialon. You don’t belong on planet earth. Neither do I. No one belongs here, because we were all sent here from somewhere else.’
‘From the heavens. From the dwelling place of God, yes.’
The Boy nodded pensively. ‘Is there no reason you can find to stay? No cause you would fight for, no lives you would save?’
Adialon shrugged. ‘I am more tired than I ever thought possible. The fight has nearly left me. I do not feel as though I have the strength to save more lives. And as for a cause, you have the gift of understanding and more besides. I would that you tell me true, have I not given my all to my cause?’
The Boy looked at him intently. ‘Yes, I think you have.’
‘Why, then, does God will me to stay here? What is my purpose now?’
‘You’re ready to go home, but maybe others aren’t ready for that yet.’
Adialon tensed. ‘Tell me that such is not true.’
‘But I am sure that your time is soon. I am almost willing to promise that it is.’
‘How can you be so certain? What knowledge has been imparted to you to tell you such as that?’
‘You’ve given him your heart, haven’t you? What else could that mean?’
‘Do you know all my secrets, Boy? How do you know all these things without seeming effort?’
‘That’s part of my ability. Part of my friends’ ability too.’
‘How did you come by this ability?’
‘I was born with the ability. My friends were given the ability later, after I had saved their lives.’
‘Was it in like manner as you saved mine, in the darkness?’
‘No. I saved their lives in our world and time, where the darkness is invisible.’
‘Will you tell me your tale? I am eager to hear it, for it seems that I must yet live for a time and I would sooner listen to an engaging story than sit alone to while away the time.’
The Boy looked at him for a few moments, lost in thought. Adialon waited patiently, for there was little else he could do. Perhaps the Boy would say no, for it could not be doubted that with abilities such as theirs, the Boy and his friends would have suffered greatly. A great mind and heart went together with great suffering. Unless the Boy had told his tale before, many times over, he doubted if doing so now would or could be done with ease.
‘Yes, I will tell you,’ the Boy said. ‘But my story, our story, can’t be told all at once. It will take a long time, so long that we will have to share it a piece at a time.’
‘We meaning you and your friends of light?’
‘Yes. Me and my friends of light.’
‘That would be well. Where are your friends? Can they be summoned quickly?’
‘They will come when it’s time to share their part in this story. Until then they’ll be doing other things.’
Adialon nodded. He had hoped that he would see the Boy’s companions sooner, but if such was not to be, he would wait patiently.
‘Where does this tale begin, then?’
‘It begins with the birth of a child with a special ability. The baby boy can sense the thoughts and emotions of others, even when very, very young. This is good to a point, because the baby can learn much more rapidly about the world around him. His parents are thrilled to have been given such a child for their own, and use everything they have to teach him all he can learn. But soon they find out there’s a problem with the young boy’s ability. He begins to soak up all the emotions and thoughts of everyone around him- both good and bad. It gets so bad that the boy slowly loses his ability to function normally. Everything he is feeling becomes too much for him to deal with. He slowly begins to progress toward a breakdown. His parents are very concerned, and know that they have to do something to save their very young son. They take him and many supplies and leave the city’-
‘What does this mean, city?’ asked Adialon.
‘It’s like a bunch of large villages put together,’ explained the Boy.
‘Ah. Please continue.’
‘They leave the city for the forest, where they live from now on. They spend the next few years there, where they learn to grow their own food and live in a shelter they make with their own hands, much like the people in your village do.’
‘Then, after a few more years of living in peace, the boy’s parents become sickened?’
‘Yes,’ the Boy said sadly. ‘Some unknown sickness or disease takes hold of them. They know, they can feel that they don’t have much time left, and they know the boy must stay in the forest, so they teach him all they can, and give him a special tool to defend himself against the darkness.’
‘What is this tool?’
‘It’s called the Ocular. With it the boy’s abilities are magnified. With it the boy can learn all he desires to learn- about the world around him, about other people, about himself.’
‘A powerful tool,’ observed Adialon.
‘Yes, it is. But since it’s so powerful, his parents make sure that it’s hidden. He can still use it; because of his abilities he’s always using it.’
‘But it is made secure against the event of its being discovered by those who would use it for ill purposes.’
‘Yes,’ the Boy said, nodding. ‘I know you can understand that very well.’
‘Indeed. But please continue.’
© 2010 by Adam Scott Campbell. All rights reserved.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)