A New Year
They
pass, these years, each of them filled with details so elaborate that I forget
most of what happened. And sometimes wonder if anything happened. Was I alive?
Or just like a shadow caught in a breeze, ever dancing, twisting and dipping
about, sometimes in a sea of morbidity but mostly in areas of fanciful dreams.
A shadow easily altered in form in a society of formlessness and apprehensions.
People competing to be heard in a cave of fear. All shadows intermingling for
naught. Nothing in this cave grows. I entertain illusions of growth while the
fluidity of knowing abandons me to its barren shores. Rivers of souls gone and
going by. No one waving. Hidden voices occasionally reach me, full of promise
and hinting from a distance that life may sustain that enchantment, that wonder
and joy of curiosity I knew as a
child. My mother knew I knew. That spontaneous joy which eludes me, lost in my
cravings for acknowledgment, remains true, undeniable and for me, as usual,
unattainable. Knowing can neither be given nor received in a cave so dark that
words of light don’t find their target. There is no focus. No continuity, and
life seeming as insubstantial as that shadow that I am.
Little
do I know. Little did I know. That each new year a new voice will again reach
out to me to give my mind peace. Will I be deaf, busy darting through the
corridors of that gloomy hollow in search of an illusion of grandeur. Searching
blindly to fortify my corner of destiny. Mortality can be measured now. Its
ticking a reality. My death mask is less pliable; the slots for eyes minor
wrinkles, more slender; the blinking less as the windows close above bony
shoulders and spindly arms.
Perhaps
it’s time to awaken. Time being its own mean riddle, I call upon its mystery to
unfold and repaint my eyes. A new year beckons me to live, challenges me to
remain awake at least long enough to know. To know Creation itself. Its light
gives form to innocent beings. Entities are enlivened around me. All else is
immaterial. And Creation is ever generous.
This form may live. And for that I am thankful.
Excerpt from The Adventures of an Urban Wizard
Diog was
beginning to see again the obvious… but this time he was putting words to it.
Not always was he recording others. He scribbled furiously while Lilith slept that
dark and chilly early a.m.
Moral action is predicated on the
fortifying every day of one’s moral position. That inner compass needs to be
tuned every day through an intimate appeal to Creation itself which is the
ultimate arbiter of moral drive; the outline of moral conduct; the genesis of
truly sustainable good behaviour. Only the root can replenish the stem, the
flower, the growth of one’s moral body in its totality. The moral body needs
its own unique revivification. Daily. Daily, until the action is expected,
ordinary, fearless and fierce when necessary. No room for meekness and no
excuse for obsequiousness. The action of the moral man then becomes deliberate
and anticipated by his fellow men of goodness. The moral man becomes a beacon.
No comments:
Post a Comment