Ramblings of a master to his student.
|An old man. Bald head, long grey beard. The beard flows down past his waist. He is dressed in an all black robe. Small, wire framed glasses outline his dark, beady eyes. The lines on his weathered face ring of intellegence.
Across from him, sitting indian style on the ground, is a much younger man. Bright blonde hair, peircing emerald green eyes. Tall and lanky.
Master. Where do I go now?
That, that is up to you. For you can only
show yourself the way.
Yes. Understanding that, what if one
Lost? I have shown you the fine art of the
woven word. How can you be lost?
I dunno, but I'am.
The master reaches in the folds of his robe, takes out a small silver pipe. Assures the top is on tight, then puts flame to it. Thick smoke bellows out of his nostrils. He coughs.
A river. You know of a river, don't you?
Of course. A river, ever flowing. Ever changing
to it's environment.
The master hands the pipe over. The student puts his own flame to it. Quickly passes it back. He holds his breath. Coughs. Hacks. Sputters out thick, grey smoke from his mouth and nose.
Yes. But does a River have to be told where
Well, no. I wouldn't think so.
Exactly. A river flows the same path
that the water before it flowed.
Master holds his finger up, gesturing to hold on. He takes another hit of the pipe. Lets the smoke ease it's way out of his mouth. It lingers, twisting and contorting into shapeless matter.
The only difference. The flow is never the same.
Some maybe fierce, in your face, raging rapids.
While others, placid, peaceful, slowly streaming to
So. I have to find a River?
No. You are the River. Your writing the flow.
All the great literary minds before you have
forged the River bed. It is up to you to
decide how you use this gift.
to be continued.....................