Art by:  Rehail Essad

Art by: Rehail Essad


The arm’s pistons hiss, gears turn, the platform rises.
My people.
We listen, they say as one.
I sit before you—humble.
We hear, they whisper.
These words, not my own, come from higher.
We listen, their words clear yet subtle.
There is a pattern, a way, a path, an adventure, a series of events.
We hear.
I am the map, only the paper, not the information it contains. Head these words.
We listen.
Find your own way, let no one tell you they know the path.
We hear.
No man, no woman, no child, no saint, no elder, no one knows your journey.
We listen, they say. A few nod.
Ah, but the light. The light will guide you, find it. Seek within, feed it, grow it, nurture it. Foster the light.
We hear.
Find the light and bring it forth. Never hide what only you have to offer.
We listen.
A story. He says. There was a city, a good city, the brick roads were clean, the homes tidy, the people happy. The brick layer was proud of his work, although it wasn’t his alone. It was his father that had started construction on the road. Before the bricks the road was packed dirt. Back then the roads turned to rivers of mud when the heavy rains came. People found themselves stuck, angry, and dirty after even a short trip to the market. One day the brick layer noticed a missing brick. Now ask yourself, did the brick layer ignore the missing brick? With so many others, thousands, even tens of thousands, what mattered one? Did he go home, shrug, and say “All will be fine”? Of course not. Go home he did, yes, but no to shrug and say “Oh, it’ll be fine”. He went home to craft a new brick. Even with the rest of the road intact that one missing brick needed to be replaced. Left incomplete the road’s stability would begin to fall to ruin. Do you hear?
We hear.
Go your way.
We listen and hear.