Solitude, found here and only here, in the subconscious, where alien eyes cannot sully reverie with miscast gaze. Where the soul does not shirk and cringe, hiding in the twilight recesses of its own depths, timorous of scorn born of haste, born of apathy.
Solitude found here, but not solitariness. For here the soul casts off the ligatures of social convention, of murmured platitudinous convention, of the essence-draining monotonies pedestrian philosophers equate with living. Here the soul does not conflate shadow with substance but looks heavenwards for illumination and in the glare thrown back by the sun sees a reflection of its own being.
Here the soul begins to comprehend: clear eyes, sober mind. Walk with staid, even-meter forward. Provisioned only with a vision of one’s own greatness. Gaze ever-forward to sidestep pitfalls thrown up by the jealous grey ones whose minds are still cloistered by the shadows on the wall. But reach: ever upwards, palms spread wide, fingers curled like talons, grasping, yearning for totality.
“Here be dragons.” warn the prophets of doom, those naysaying soothsayers whose warnings come in the gentle, cooing tones of a mother to a newborn. Yes, the mind has dragons, jealous hoarders of cached knowledge, cast there, for one’s own protection, by the self-same soothsayers who warn of the unknown perils in the mind’s shadowland, whose alchemical undertakings transform self-confidence to self-doubt.
Theirs is a numerical imperative: one that sees safety and wisdom in numbers. The sovereign agent, the lone explorer who boldly plumbs the hidden depths, who laughs at signposts that warn of existential dangers lurking in the mists of the unknown, is the greatest of conceivable monsters.
“Beware the iconoclasts.” cry the soothsayers. “In their brave new world lies uncertainty, and in uncertainty lies danger. Better safeguard existence in the safety of the known.”
The sovereign man’s eyes alight; they are the windows to a soul on fire with indignation. Iconoclast? No, for they revere the oldest command in existence: Know thyself.
In the echoing recesses of his cavernous being, the sovereign man’s soul screams in anguish. It swells with orations eschewing complacency.
“Is it death you fear?” his subconscious shouts. “Well, look at the complacency that walls in your being. Is such boundless, shirking servitude what you call living?”
For all its fear of destruction, the philosophy of stasis exacts a heavy blood price.
He who looks to his division as a divining rod for his creative efforts bears testament to this. For his success relies on the whims of others whose hobgoblin minds have been primed to view his uniqueness as a threat. He is held hostage by their petty needs, by the feeble inclinations of their minds.
And in their vengeance drive him to prize darkness, darkness where prying eyes cannot see, where vigilant ears cannot hear the secret yearnings of his being. Is it he who is the threat, one man against many, whose only desire is to bring the reality his mind conceives into being? Or those who eschew selfishness but use this as a cudgel to beat down those perceived as a threat to their security?