Old Man Walking Up The Stairs by Antonietta Varallo
Old Man Walking Up The Stairs by Antonietta Varallo

 

 

He walked a solitary walk yet lonely was he not. He could still hear the tones of sweet wonder and fear that whispers close, in verse and prose, dreams mingled with worlds crystal clear. He stumbled by a lullaby his mind still gazed upon,.. confined. The world is no longer unkind. Little can he tell if the pillars of his heart were falling apart or all the ones within his mind. Little has he been tempted by eloquence of mother nature. Little has he believed that miracles are as close to him as his shadow to his stature. Now he can rest for heavens lain on earth safely hidden, yet forbidden to all but one, the one who remembers to live has he breathes. For he found the meaning of his own life into the very air he was breathing. Back then, once he tastes death and deep abyss into a faith corrupted by a stubborn mind and mind corrupted by an impotent faith. Now he knew he had transcended. Now God is lucid enough that his own soul is so translucent. He cannot see anything but one in everything. He cannot hear but one single piece of music that resonates his very life and all nature is playing it. It was the longest walk. For he can see his whole life passing by. It was the shortest walk. For his heart has beaten only once as he was walking by. Out of awe, out of reverence, out of the glamour deeply imbued into his soul.

Long was his journey and deeply surged by ventures he could not travel alone, for he married his own thoughts and his own emotions and gave birth to myriad words, words that breathe and walk and jump and talk, that fall and rise and strangle between the bittersweet hymns of victory or demise, that sustain creeds or lure into blasphemies & disbelief, that may cause agony to a wedding or a funeral’s relief. That may weave a thousand thread of pain and strain and empty tries that seemed in vain, entwined in care and fear, or torn asunder on the frontier. For he stood upon the verge, between what was right and what was good. Between his own condemnation and punishment, for his punishment was undergone by none but himself. He was a lonely man, of lonely hope and lonely prospect of success, he only could turn all the thoughts within his mind into a mess to feed upon the uttered scrambled thoughts that arose. His mind was cluttered and his heart was weak, & into the bleak days he wandered with no company but his own staff. For he could only trust the staff of his own logic, for seldom has it been broken, & so have his words been seldom spoken.

Yet now it has been all revealed; That he was wrong for he was not here, and of all the things that exists he has the least probability for he only exists within everything if he knows that all things are one and that all what drives existence is merely locked outside of everything for everything was locked inside. That was his lesson and every other lesson. That was his walk and every other walk. He strolled the gates of bliss for he was one with all that is & was & will be.

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