He’s a policeman, a soldier, a programmer, a farmer, a murderer, a priest and a politician. He is anything that he wants to be. He’s a salesman by day and an author by night.
Throughout the ages, poets, authors, philosophers and dreamers have summarily been put to death because their insight, their ability to see beyond the tangible, threatens those who oppress the masses.
This practice is by no means limited to the secular world. Religious leaders throughout time have murdered the prophets, the followers of truth and even the Messiah.
There comes a time in a man’s life when he must decide whether to bravely face adversity, risk excommunication, prison and even death, or stifle the gift that is within him and whimper into the status quo. Those who choose the latter are not worthy of consideration.
Are you called? If so, you have an obligation.
Do not neglect the spiritual gift that is in you. 1 Timothy 4:14
Live justly, love mercy and walk humbly with your God. Micah 6:8
He stopped at the doorway just long enough to adjust the dimmer on the lights. The room barely lit with the soft glow of his monitor, he sat down, setting a glass of red wine to his left and an almost spent, smoldering cigarette to his right. With his hands sadly prostrate on the keyboard, he closed his eyes, wondering what he could possibly write that would make a difference in a life so far away. How could he muster words of encouragement when his own soul was in need of a gentle touch of hope? No words tonight, my friend, for tears fall upon…ooooooh.
And this shall be a remembrance for all time, that one man who struggled for literary eloquence and social significance has this night been reduced to one single letter, whispered in the darkness.
On this very still night, I am thinking of you. In my mind’s eye, I can almost see you sleep, yet there is a sadness that binds us together. Not so much a sadness as a melancholy. Not so much a bond as a unison, a oneness, a…it’s difficult to explain.
May the soft whisper of my heart touch yours. May the peace that I know surround you and become yours. May the miles I have traveled bring you comfort, knowing that tomorrow’s road will be filled with joy.
I can’t hear the ticking of the wall clock anymore because the years have dulled my hearing, but I know it’s still counting down the seconds left in my life. It is as tenacious as a bird on a June bug, as haunting as Edgar Allen Poe’s Raven. It’s just as well that I can’t hear the reminder that time is running out. All of my friends are getting older. Heck, even the kids are getting older.
I wish I’d found this place earlier in life. There is only one thing I would change though. I wouldn’t own any clocks. They make no sense and all they do is hurry you along.
The world’s insatiable lust for blood wine ever and again compels the poet, the artist, the creator to a life of monastic solitude. Thus, the fair song of the eremite is only heard by One.
