Imagine having evolved to the point that you become the creator of realities such as this. You are now a master of The Art of Storytelling, your stories are now reality. You are now the Maestro of a great Orchestra, your movements are now miraculous orchestrations of sight and sound and One Immortal day you have heard the cries of a Young Man who has lost their faith in you, the creator of his story.
To this young man you begin to sing a harmony of woe and wonder. All about him he can see mortality at it's worst. He begs you, "show me you're real! Show me you care!"
His cries, move you as his knowing the truth of your involvement in this story is your most primary obligation. So with endless patience and compassion you go to work transforming aspects of the story that the young man recognized as circumstances.
You set out before him the woman who asks the long faced young man if he is ok. The same woman who would then offer him an invitation to the church she belongs to. The young man politely declines.
You set out before him now the child who offers her half eaten sucker because she too can see his pain hiding in plain sight. Her mother, appearing embarrassed by this beautiful and innocent act of kindness, apologizes. He, feeling vulnerable and unprepared to respond, simply Dawn's a fake smile and brushes it off.
The young man, so blinded by his illusionment, returns home, ever the worst for ware. With agony you continue to watch and hold him In Your heart. Every day you send him an angel, and every day he his worn a little more by fear. His blindness was of course no fault of his own. The story has an antagonist after all. In the young man's small world, all good stories do.
So the years roll on. The young man becomes an old man. He had two wives one divorced and the last passed on before him. Three children, two with the deceased mother. All had grown up and moved out. The old man strolling the cemetery where his wife was buried, carried a lonesome tune in contemplation of finer days.
He found that beneath all the memories, there burned but one question. The old man believed he lived what he thought was a full life. Yet with all the love he had for his late wife and three children, he could not help but notice a familiar song being sung in the place where the drums of life beat enthusiastically to the rhythm of each breath.
This song, he felt, had been there his whole life. He thought back through it all. He felt every flutter and every pang that accompanied such a long and enduring existence. He sought the source of this song through all the years of questions and desires met and unmet. He questioned every choice he ever made and pondered this brilliant conundrum until the moment finally dawned.
He questions aloud, "if all that I am, have done, and have to offer this world is not enough to sate such loneliness, what is there to hope for?"
This man stood in deafening silence as even the birds and squirrels seemed to sense the presence of something MORE. He could sense it too, A peculiar feeling, like A dream. He was waiting for something to happen. tension soon built out of anticipation for the miracle you set out for him, just under his nose. Frustration set in as the silence continued.
With a symbolic act of defiance, the man prepared to kick angrily at the grass beneath him only to freeze himself mid strike as he notices a single flower just millimeters from destruction.
Just one yellow flower amongst a sea of green.
The man knew this flower well, because it was his wife's favorite thing about the park they would often walk through in her final days. It was mowed once a week, but those simple flowers that so many would call a weed, would appear by the next day, swiftly undoing man's efforts to remove the beauty of nature and replace it with conformity and sameness.
It was in this moment, hinged on the patience and faith of a single flower, the old man realized, he was never alone.
You are the player of all of these characters and you have only forgotten this, but now you will remember.
