- 2026-02-16
- Writing - vignettes
- Previous - 16. Quest
So, then β why no triumphant horns? Why no celebrant blaring?
Should not the freedom taste divine?
My life, a smouldering ruin. I destroyed it for nothing.
But not just myself; I burned the ones who loved me.
I marched forth with burning torch, to burn away all cruft. Loved ones with hesitant hands tried to soothe my heart, asked in a whisper why I was so cold, apart. So Iβd burn them too, lest they slow me down. To the one who believes this moment a brambled wasteland, true meaning glimmering atop the holy mountain, the soothing of others rings of empty promise, deception, an entreaty to leave the quest and be merely ordinary, thorn-filled and tangled, like the rest.
Your love cannot touch me, I do not need it, nor desire nor recognise. I must burn my way free. You canβt save me, so why speak? Do not waste my time. Canβt you see Iβm glory-bound?
And yet, sometimes, love stopped me dead. I lacked the wisdom to understand the happening, and the implication. I did not realise my salvation, did not see that I had thrown down my torch and found what I sought, beauty and wholeness, wildflowers, a meadow, not brambles at all.
When our eyes met and you were too giddy to speak.
When I wept with grief and you agreed to family therapy in an instant.
When we cried together, our conflict resolution call, our friends as witnesses, no help from them needed.
When I made you proud. When you said you loved me. When I felt deep love for you. When you held me tight, six months after I broke your heart. When you read to me as a child, when we camped out in your car. When I visited you in Berlin and we watched a film and you made homemade popcorn. When we cried together on that balcony, two brothers, an inexplicable bond.
So much love. I see it now.
An astonished time, sometimes a moment, sometimes a week. The intellect quenched, the search extinguished, my soul ablaze, sparks flying.
But then Iβd stumble, make some mistake, and draw the wrong conclusion. Press the helmet on my head, and steely armour for my heart. Cursing the wasted time, Iβd burn the saviour, transform the flowers to thorns, and resume the march, the burning.
I see now. They were right, and I was wrong. Be with us, and yourself, see the path of love you could not leave, even as you burned your way.
Looking back, the ashes of my folly donβt obscure the golden path. And there are flowers that survived, more of them than I can count. And up ahead, I raise my head, the path is bright and clear. Such beauty in the meadows, Iβd be glad to meet you here.