He sits, alone but in a crowd, strong but in various degrees of weakness. He wanders, tired but not fatigued, certain but not steady. He is a wanderer of vast proportions, a walking yin yang of clear distortions, a breathing oxymoron of blurred clarity. He is a man enriched with feminine depth, a raging beast soothed with a calming beauty, and a liar soaked in the waters of undeniable truth.
He had found, then lost, love over and over until love could never be lost again. He had walked until he nearly floated upon the ground, and had floated until the sky was no longer a symbol of how high he could go. He ate until realizing that hunger was more to his liking, and he starved until he realized that loss was only something his mind had created. He had desired wealth until all his life’s spaces were full, and then gave it all away when the space was all he wanted.
The world around him seemed to dance to a somber tune he could no longer bear to hear. He would watch them endlessly and clumsily swirl to the rhythm until he realized that they could not even hear the music. If they could, they would end the dance instead of continually falling all over themselves in a mindless, destructive routine whose only purpose was to bruise and batter them out of their slumber. They were so busy moving that they never truly danced, never truly existed, outside the music others had imprinted in them. They could hear the noise, but they could never truly hear the music, and for this their dance suffered.
He felt no superiority in his realized greatness. He knew that everyone was great, and even as they stumbled their way clumsily to music that fell on deafened ears, they and he were all such vast drops of unrealized possibility. Their suffering told them a story they would ignore and even, in some cases, become addicted to. Instead, they listened to the stories of their ancestors, often forgetting the truth they were told as they were tucked in the womb waiting patiently for the moment when two cells of possibility became one vast being of potential..
There was excitement in the boredom he would feel in their stories of miracles. He could see the stories for what they were, lies they would tell themselves in order to make the dance just a little more bearable. He once would say, “Stop talking, and start listening,” and their responses would sadden him to the point where the suffering was no longer worth the cause. The same illness that kept them from hearing the notes kept them from hearing the truth, and he wanted no parts of the sadness he felt in dealing with their noise. He had become mostly a silent observer, only speaking in those occasions when the feeling moved him to, or the question simply needed to be answered. He loved the harmony that coursed through his soul, and he liked to keep his focus there.
Soon, the Voice whispered to him. “It is time. Speak. Speak your soul in words not yet invented. Hold your mind in a chalice not yet formed, and fly through skies not yet known. Do not speak to them, or for them. Just speak your words of love and truth and let those who listen, listen and those who don’t move on. You will be hated. You will be ridiculed. You will be loved, and you will be cherished. It’s all one voice within you speaking, and you must listen to neither. You are ready, and Now is the time.”
Stars are born and universes created in those passionate moments when a man realizes his own symphony. There, in the swirling chaos of perfect order, a man finds his entire purpose, his entire Being. The confusion makes sense, as do the parts of the whole as they come together in harmonious good will. He discovered only his mind knew them as opposites, but his soul knew them as one, awesome experience.
“Go,” repeated the Voice. “It’s time.”