The harsh rays of the morning sun were just beginning their slow track across the room. The unshuttered window allowing in the only true vision of reality to the closed world within. It was a rarity and a luxury. The sage preferred his solitude from the distractions of the city. Never chancing his luck with the freewill of other beings, angel or daemon, or man. These were want to be nosey, meddling in the curiosity of the sages work.
On this morning however he was willing to chance the errant and vigilant eyes. Today was foretold to him to be a perfect beginning, and a impartial foretelling vague as it was could not be ignored.
The sage had learned through out his history that to ignore an event is to force oneself to repeat the lesson over until learned. Since he was the one having to write each scribbled cryptic line repetition was something to be avoided. His first disciplinarian had taught him that lesson with chalk and board many ages before.
“I miss her”, a quiet voice said breaking the silence of the mornings daydreaming.
The long bearded hermit looked about the room for his unannounced guest. He knew better than waste time with the effort but he did it anyway. Nearly blind by age and gazing into the golden light of the sun made seeing anything more than or less than arms length nothing but a blur. On top of that most things heard or seen in the closed room never existed there. Always what was had been told second hand, seen second hand. Only echoes and shadows called the sages plane home. For something different and unexpected to occur it had to happen elsewhere. The voice being no different. It’s origin being from some other place or time.
The sad truth was the sage did miss the teacher too. Enough in fact he began to search about the disorganized shelves of the room for her. Unable to locate her there he next went through the boxes of magazines stacked clumsily about the place. Having no luck there either forced himself to unbundle the tied copies of news paper he had hoarded beneath cushions and tables. Finally finding the one especially written about her, by her, for her.
A short reorganizing latter, cushions on couch, easy-chair moved back into place, bundles recovered and tied, boxes closed, the sage was almost ready to read his morning paper. The happy smile of the cover story warming his old heart, even as she turned and walked across the picture. Children began lining up behind. Many familiar faces, many forgotten, and a few not long for their story.
“That’s the gift though,” said the voice.
“I know” thought the sage,” but that has never made writing them any easier.”
And with that another story was..
#the sage, #the Wakeful Dream, #the room, #my story, #my writing, # the book of Pat, #angel, #daemon, #teacher
False Promises Nouveau 