His feet shuffle like cards do. Left, Right. As if he runs away from a crime scene. There was no light as to where he's going to. He has submitted his life to the Lord, knowing not where to go. He just wants to be away from everything else. From everybody else. He wasn't crying, nor was he panting. There was not a pinch of tiredness to his muscles. He was covering meters upon meters. He ran like whipped horses do, like sadness chases away happiness. There was no physical pain that could bear the pieces of his shattered heart. Until he stopped. Wishing he was being chased by the one he loves.
The rain was pouring hard. It felt like bullets hitting an iron sheet. The tears weren't there, but it was as if he was crying. The sound the downpour creates can't overcome his palpitating heart, his shivering body. There isn't a way that his tears are neither falling, nor his thirst for answers are quenched. His fists, clenched, were bleeding from his own grip. He wasn't going to war, he just lost a battle. He gave himself a tight hug. One that keeps warmth inside and enemies outside. Like a mother's last hug to her precious children. The juices are pouring, like do the rain. They protect him, they cleanse him. They are with him like nobody else. He was alone, but it didn't bother him. He was away from everything, both friends and foes.
He was bearing everything in good faith. Finally he was able to muster a word. A few sentences. "Let the bitterness reside in me until it sees fit to leave." Then he runs again. Allowing endorphins to circle through his body. He needs to move, by dynamic. He can never stagnate, be static. No person he knew of had ever experienced his burden today. Perhaps not even tomorrow. He is burdened by the elusiveness of reason. By the influx of doubt. Of himself, of everything he has ever believed in.
"If God is the summation of all emotions, then this melancholy is His part of me." He uttered. It has been years since he has spoken of God with so much glory. He toyed with other people's belief of Him. Pretty much like him. Funny how people tell him they love him yet they don't reside at a place of enough knowledge of him. How they claim to be his friends, when at the time of need, they forget. He is not God. Yet why is he beyond comprehension to other people? He mused. Now the doubting has taken over him. as he sits between 2 cold rocks, he tries to contemplate on things. He wonders. "These rocks have probably been made cold by the ages." He said, Made cold by years of unnoticed existence." He continues, �Man has always been cold to his environment, warm only to those he desires. If I sit here from today until I find my answers, I would probably end up being a hermit. I'll grow old realizing so many things. So many wise things that no one in around 100 kilometers radius, is willing to listen to. Who'd want to listen to a young hermit like me? I've realized so much at my age, yet these things are frequently laughed at. Wisdom is not the way of the world today. They believe in practicality, power, and strength and of course, sex. None that purifies the soul. None that I have achieved thus far." Upon hearing himself, he suddenly started to gather himself and return from where he came from. He can always return with a listless face. One that sorrow can't erase. He sees himself fit to be fighting a 12 rounder. Promising himself that in 12 years he'd have himself all sorted out and out of the shambles he is in right now. Composed, secure and well-rounded.
12 years passed. A tower rises over the city. 110 floors, 10 square hectares. An empire stands here. People come over to see the spectacular magnificence of the building. Its structure most modern, design captivating. You can feel the work hours dedicated to finish it. The wind hums with the tires screeching, cars' honking & helicopters hovering above the building. There were no trees to make the wind whistle. But there was enough shade for everybody. 100 meters of concrete would have created enough shade for 100 persons at 12:10 in the afternoon. An alarm sounded at around 9:00 at the building's penthouse. It was the landlord's. He owned the place. He was away from the unlighted streets he used to run to. Away from the cold rain pouring on his skin like bullets to an iron sheet. He was away. As he had always wished to. He greets the sunshine with a child-like grin, as he prepares to meet his "knights of the round table". He no longer wasn't listened to. He was Boss. His words are like laws commanding a person how to breathe. There was comfort for his body, warmth of the sun, and softness of his double queen-sized bed.
At the center of the lobby a fountain stands. Majestic to the eyes are they. And it can be labeled as an understatement. But raised in the middle of it wasn't water spraying; it was a stone, shaped like a person's back once rested on it. There were inerasable hand marks which were very visible. It was placed like it was something divine. Something that can hold an identity. There, the stone seems unmovable. Safe from gravity. Safe from the cold ground. It only adapts the temperature of the water.
The owner speaks fluent French and Spanish. As much as he could talk little German and Portuguese. His English perfect, suited well for the trade he is in. A perfect businessman fitted for the perfect trade. He has gone thousands of miles from where he was 12 years ago. A long way for a middle-aged man. He was roughly 32, and he had cancer. 2 days ago his hair fell together with him. Doctors said he'd be lucky to live past 3 months. His brain worked as perfect as a well-oiled machine, but his body weakens like a person past 90. Again he tried to run, but his feet could no longer shuffle the way they did. He would be panting after 20 steps.
As he feared that death was nearing, he had the stone removed from the pedestal it once occupied. He felt the stone decisively for the last time, as he searched for a mark he had created on it. Aside from his hand marks, he had written his promise on the stone. It was what reminds him to fulfill his promise. He always felt like running as he worked himself up. He worked 20 hours a day and every day, he made sure he earned money. By 28 he was able to build his own building. He was a great achiever. But as he touched the stone, it was even colder when he first saw it. The ages of past unnoticed were even effaced by the 12 years he labored and forgot about himself. He learned no human emotion but he knew the business language. He knew about the world but he knows no longer himself. He made billions but had deficits on friends. Everything he had run away from, he made profitable, but he and his life was in the red. Now all the money in the world can't save him. His death is written, inevitable. The stone seems to yearn to communicate with him. But he has not touched the stone for 12 years. The one he leaned on to was no longer special, only a mere stone.
A young hermit aged around 32 sits at a stone at the edge of the city. Very few people notice him because he clearly looks young and not too wise. Then a young man approached him saying, "What have you got for me?" He brought out his hand for the hermit to read. Then the hermit said "I do not read palms, young fellow. But there is something I'd like to share to you." The young man, visibly irritated said, "What use could you be of, if you can't read my palm? You useless old fool! Believing the sitting on a stone would give to you a meaningful life! You should be at a mental hospital!" But the older person composedly brought out 3 stones from his bag. It was colored red, blue and yellow. "Here take them. It can guide you through your journey. They are the 3 most important colors in you life. Hold them too tight and you'd see only black. Hold them too loose and you'll lose them. Hold them firmly and you'll see the plethora of colors this wonderful world has." The young man, unconvinced and stubborn, said "What use could I have for them? I work 8-5, I eat well and sleep enough, is there anymore that I could wish for that I do not have?" He bluntly stated. "I am 32 and I have a happy family, I have enough money so as to avoid debt and I have a roof over my head. I just went here to have something new to tell to my wife. I've seen people like you, you are not old! Nor are you wise! You have lived a life of wisdom yet wisdom is beyond you." With that, the young fellow returned the stones, leaving the hermit to himself. "I may have not helped him, not because I know nothing, but because I have not helped myself."
"What a dream!" said the chief executive. He washed himself and dressed down. He went to the edge of the city to look for that young hermit the same age as he is. He failed to find the hermit, but he saw a familiar stone. It was the one unto which the hermit leaned on to. But it was too familiar, not really like something seen on a dream. It was the stone where he wrote his very promise. It was the morning after he ran away from his troubles. It was that day that he wept last. On the stone was written his name and his promise. It was the stone at his left side, where he promised to search and learn more about everything that would make him happy. What he venerated was his second stone placed on his right, where he promised "to labor as hard as I should labor to love myself." But labor was the only word he knew how to spell then. He hugged the stone, feeling that it got warmer by the minute. Until it took the life out of him.
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