My Writings

The Deaf and the Mute

Who was I before I knew who I was? A web of lies, strangling the Unsuspecting – and how afraid I was to be caught in my own web. Now Truth is no longer foreign, abstract, unwanted, shunned. Now I no longer claw at its golden surface, as smooth as a lake submerged in Stillness, reflecting back at the Moon of His world, His own light.

Tell me, friend, how can you lose at your own game? How can you fail to be yourself when no one else is there to challenge you, when no one else can take your place? Given the freedom to decide, you have decided to concede that freedom. There is no strength for you in others – it lies within. The crowd is an overbearing mother, she will strangle you with your own umbilical cord.

Go your own way. I know where that path leads, let me tell you, but if you go searching, lifting every stone, brushing aside every branch, you will never find what I found and see what I saw. Nevertheless, that Place exists in time and space, and only one may go down the path to find himself there. I was the one.

Your path is strangely familiar. The place where it ends, giving way to the Forest, is as real as mine. I can go no further. From here, you are on your own. It is as if the keys to your lock are hung around your neck. Sleeplessly you guard them, clutching them in your fist.

Do you see now what I meant?

Now your pain is your very own. Now you sow your own mistakes and you reap their bitter fruits. Now your peculiar tune is heard more clearly in the endless stream of life. To be yourself is to be alone, the water of others can never quench your thirst, but, even more terribly, you now speak a foreign language.

Your words inaudible to others, your Truth alien and strange, you dance like a monkey near the main path, mute like an animal, and you try to speak Their Tongue.

They are deaf to your words.

It is because they know what you have to say.

And it terrifies them.


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