A sigh, a gasp, a rush of something wonderful. It could be all that we live for and all that we die for. Or it could be nothing at all. Only time will tell, so just sit with me a minute as I tell you this story.
In the modern age of love, we are all jaded and duped just as we are hopeful and persistent. A man seeking her is on a vision quest of sorts. It is a quest desiring a truth in a love so potent that he puts the neck of all he fears into the noose of total strangers. He risks all he desires on the whims of those who know so little of truth or love just to find the one who has mastered a bit of both. He is willing to cut his way through the high briers of discontent in order to find the sweet oasis he has only seen in his heart.
The grunts of his efforts are among the sounds of everything.
Amidst the toils of his labor he finds the scent of something wonderful. He cannot describe its sweetness nor can he attest to its reality. What he does is promise to follow it, to honor it, and kneel down to its source . Among the stench of refuse he sets his intention to bear. He is seeking that one sweet fragrance in the hopes that she, too, has been seeking him.
The flesh of his hands are torn away by his labor, and his feet are bloodied by the thorns he’s left discarded in his wake. Yet still he is undeterred, needing to prove to himself that the journey is worth the price. He sings a song of hope that radiates his truth throughout the field in which he labors. He dances to music only he can hear, and in the notes there resides a prayer that she may hear it to.
The song he sings is among his sounds of everything.
He nears the realization of his truth. Suddenly there is a clearing and the sigh escapes his chest. He sheaths his sword and walks toward a lone flower standing stoically along a river. He bows in reverence and kneels in her honor. She has touched him beyond his flesh and has reached into places few have ever seen.
His voice remains silent but in his heart a steadfast oath. He shall not pluck this flower from her roots. Instead, he will honor her and protect her, keeping her safe from storms and drought alike. He would suffer in her suffering, grow old as she aged, laugh in her laughter and find peace in her embrace. The scars on his hands and feet were just the price he paid to get to her, and he willingly paid the price to never leave.
His oath was among his sounds of everything.
The warrior who walks the path of truth to uncover the story of his heart bears the wounds and joys of a great journey. He stumbles and falls and drags himself through shit-filled mud just to lay with her on the banks of some great river. She may honor him in return or send him to the his field of labor, but either is a risk worth taking. Saddened though he may be, defeated though he may seem, quitting is a word left to weaker men. This man growls, curses and then sets himself to work.
His growl is among his sounds of everything. His everything is a flower remaining to be found.