solitude

One man stood at the end of a lush valley, peering down at desolation. He was no man of any particular look. He could have just as easily been anyone, as he could have been no one. Of course, he was neither, he was somewhere in between. What must be said of a man like that? Well I suppose the same as might be said of anyone, for he was no different.
He had thick light brown hair, and pale gray eyes. The kind of eyes you might assume just knew, and had accepted whatever it may be. His height was perhaps 6 feet, but he wore it as if it were 5. He meant not to impose himself on anyone or anything, he walked in a very quiet way, and as he walked along this line between everything and nothing he made no exception.
If he were telling this story he would not have said any of that. He would not pay any heed to himself, thinking himself irrelevant to anything that might be for you. I am not he, however, and I see this scene that I speak of now, and he is very much in it. This scene of which I speak simply is. This is not some play, where there were other scenes leading up to it, and this is not some book with some great ending to come. This scene of which I speak I will say again, simply is.
To his right stands barren emptiness, there is not even death, there is only what cannot be, and that is nothing. That place is beyond understanding, but not for the gray eyes that now stare into it. It is that understanding that is his key, and his knife. I say both, because what he holds in his hand is both, differentiated only by how he wields it. He has spent himself getting that key, and that knife. He is that key, and that knife.
The only thing that can get us anywhere is us, that is why the philosopher is a blacksmith, if he dares to pick up what he molds he becomes the warrior, or the adventurer, the martyr, the stuff of legends. Our world is made of those lives that wielded their key, or their knife.
This lone man understood that, and much more. He sat now, in understanding. There was no reason left for him to walk, he had reached his destination, solitude. What dawned on him now, is that he had spent the trip alone. He had reached what he thought was his goal long ago, but all journeys only have one goal, an end. How did that make sense? Questions that had paved his foot beaten path to this point began to form in his head again. Still his face did not move. The irony that such a man at the edge of life should look dead in contemplation. Or is it irony? Perhaps its consequence, or both, but that has little to do with what has to do with everything, so I will stop.
He pondered, and sat there. Each moment an age outside of time; every breath took in all the world. Finally he looked to his left, to that lush valley, that open field. It was where he had come from, and he had not looked there in a while. What he saw though was not what he left. He was too far away, but his face did not shift with memory, nor did his heart. He was beyond that, he could not be shifted the same way the universe could not be shifted. He had confined himself to himself, for so long, and in that he found stability, simply because there was nothing else.
He stood up and kept on walking along this cliff. It offered no threat, because every step was grounded, and safe. Again he thought, of why he started walking so long ago. Solitude, was all he wanted, again it occurred to him he had that, he had grown past solitude, he was not even with himself anymore. He was simply his journey, not a person, only thought. This did not slow him, or change his direction, after all, you can’t impede what simply is. Very much like this scene, it has no end, simply peace, meant for no one.

solitude

CGBSpender

Joined January 2008

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