The solitude of the sleepy world
When I dream, the people invited to
participate in the dramatic and theatrical expression of my mind as I sleep
probably do not know that they are in that script and if they are, they are most
likely playing a different perspective from the one that gains my focus.
Even so, when I have dead relatives in
living colour conversing contemporaneously until at one point my consciousness
interfered and told someone who came to pick me up that they were dead and
should not be here. Immediately, they got back in their car and drove off.
The mystery of individuality with the
uniqueness it engenders along with the way we believe suggests a clash in many
spheres of life, wherein the ideas I may present will elicit the admonition in
other words implicitly telling me to come to my senses, yet like Nicodemus in
The Chosen, “I have never been closer to my senses.” Even if from an observer’s
point of view, I am crazy and bordering on demented.
In my hearing and wearing
I have many friends from whom I take
long and considered counsel; their views are sometimes as distant as the east is
from the west to what I have going on in my mind. We must at certain times have
the courage of our convictions despite the contrary wisdom being proffered.
For all intents and purposes, each man
has to walk their own long hard road and climb to subdue their own mountains;
the succour and comfort you get along the way is rarely from those walking in the
same shoes on the same path. What we endure affects people differently. I know
the pain of cancer and probably my pain threshold, but I will not compare my
appreciation of pain to that being suffered by another, be it a headache or
something considerably worse.
Let me ply my course
When I came to the conclusion that
involved the decisions I have made, it would be uncharitable for anyone to
think that anything was done without due and considered contemplation. Coming
to the harvest to reap knowledge rarely involves knowing who tilled the ground,
sowed the seeds, watered the grain, pulled the weeds, and kept away the pests
until the crop was ready to be harvested for the barns.
What you see today did not begin in
some instant just measure in the few hours past, the crying of the soul, the
pain in the heart, the weariness of the bones, the loss of sleep that presages
a sense of peace at the point of acting has already taken its tenuous toll. The
force of hope trundling on like a perpetual engine fuelled by life and living.
There is at least one who seems to understand where opinion should be silent and support should be unstinting, and for that alone, I am grateful that I am no stranded in the wilderness of threat, danger, and a forlorn absence of direction. The story remains the one you tell of what you have lived.