If it’s not the polarity of your presence that cuts into my chest as a lightsaber to hanging meat in cold storage, it’s the phantom emptiness of your absence that tickles my soul with a sort of famine groan.
I must at these times unmantle myself from this incapacitation, keep my soul from powering it up, for you are none the wiser if I suffer than if I am well, and I am the sole loser of this entire game.
Yet you are far more lost than I. Adrift in your own world, you frolic without care. The ground is littered with your childish drawings, colorful and creative, yet balled up and tossed away in just the same way as valueless objects are discarded into the trash by litter-conscious park goers.
Yet yours must be even more worthless, for they are tossed about the way children toss their impulsive mess of toys and play objects and scatter them throughout the house according to the whims of their sea’s waves.
I hide what I hold in my hands from everyone. What I hold is coveted and sought after by nearly everyone the world over. Humans have murdered and killed to possess it, all without gaining anything. What I possess I hold as one of the few who will ever get to touch it–it is a stone from the heavens which can never be destroyed. It may be the most valuable thing in all the earth.
And here I am, stupid man that I am, waiting to offer you a piece of it, and there you are, stupid girl, not even understanding that such a thing exists or that you live in an emotional refuse landfill and possess not the tiniest, least significant object of value.
You want the world? I cannot bewitch you with the wealth of the world as many others can, for I have not silver or gold, but I would give it to you in my own way–my portion of assets the world or God has granted to me. Perhaps it will be enough for you.
Perhaps you can gain what is coveted by all instead of spending your life searching for what will never satisfy and what can never be arrived upon, and what, once found, gains you nothing in the end of all things, since the dreams and idealisms of youth are indescribable vanities and produce nothing but disappointment and hopelessness.
There are other dreams and other idealisms, however, which possess the quality of eternity, and they, as the best of all art, do not fade or lose their luster through the ages. Indeed, they are ageless and unshakeable; they prove the existence of an enlightenment granted to humanity as if by another universe–one that scoffs at the limits of our own–entirely.
Perhaps I spit into the wind; perhaps my last tree curses me for my idealistic stupidity, counting the days until our inevitable death. For if we fail, if I fail, we will die. We could not possibly continue to exist with beating hearts, but only in a cold casket and a heap of ashes.
But the invaluable stone is not activated through what is tangible and believable. It comes alive only at the beckoning of dreams, at the whims of a power able to transform from the earth what ought never to have been possible. It hopes in only what is absurd, inconceivable, unachievable. It never gives up, as if it were a law of the universe simply obeying itself.
I am but obeying a law of the universe, and I can no more halt it than I could halt the waterfall from following gravity or the cosmic radiation from bursting out of a hypernova. If I fail, I die, for there is no in-between, no netherworld where even the slightest compromise is possible.
Will you ever accrue the sagacity of this light, or will you walk invariably in the darkness and cause me to do the same, to my own expiration? I suppose we shall see.