The aberrations of a quiet man

Twenty-one divided by three is seven. Seven years to prove my worth. Seven, to find my way. Seven, to pursue that path to the threshold of the Second Octave. With every step, courage is first tested. Desire may not be coerced, but will must ever strive against it. Courage is never easy. Courage is never cautious. The only test of courage is boldness. No leap of faith ever revealed its landing prior to the jump. What can a flame remember? If it remembers just a little less than is necessary, it goes out. If it remembers just a little more than is necessary, it goes out. If only it could teach us, while it burns, to remember correctly. Between concealment and honesty, between invention and reality, between revelation and mystery, between artfulness and artifice, between standing still and moving forward, between knowing and feeling, there is courage. That is what the flame remembers. It remembers to be brave. The beginnings of bravery are as simple as this. Awakened too early, in the darkness, while everyone else is still sleeping, instead of rolling over immediately, and falling back to sleep, that urge is resisted, resisted, because it is important, it is crucial, to qualify that moment, awake, yet still in throe or clask of dream, to describe it, in heart, in mind, to live it fully, before submitting again to sleep. Courage begins at that point, that instant, when resistance overcomes submission. The past creates, nurtures, and sustains fear. There is no fear that is not founded in the past. There can be no fear without submission to the past. There will be no fear once free of the past. I had to cease, to begin anew. The memory as if, in fact, from coma purged, restored to naught but fantasy, imagination, lore. Rock, earth, tree, and metal. Water, fire, and air. Smell, taste, touch, sight, hearing, and hiraeth – the blood, though mine, yet never known. Moon, and sun, every planet, and every star. Disembroiled from the ravelled, choking labyrinth of circumspection, only in fearlessness, whetted strength entrusted, will I surrender. Though every pain, a lesson learned, it should not a romance be. The depth of pain must be matched in height by joy. Just as there will be tears, there must be laughter; no more profound a depth than soaring a height, no loftiness exceeding gravity. There are two hues of hope, It is true, that which with doubt deludes, and that which with belief concludes. Love, as well, in two shades comes. The practical, when needs are met, and nothing more, sustaining only appetites; the idealistic, romantic, visionary, the Muse-obsessed, ephemeral yet ineluctable, truth and magic, conjoining into one – a glance, a scent, a whisper, a touch, an instant everlasting.