A song from Nowhere

The morning is not the same; clinging tendrils of other-world mist slide into mine, altering all perception as logical reasoning flies into the realm of fantasy. I am set apart and left alone with my secret doubts, stripped bare of pretences when separated from familiarity. I do not know what to believe when the silhouette of the pine stands stark against the caged light and the shape of the hills is blurred into the barely visible sky. I hear a single melody slip its way into my awareness, a melody so pure and perfect that my soul aches for the heart that wrote it into existence. It wraps itself around me then fades away, and I cannot help but deeply lament the loss. But a whisper yet remains, though I must strain to hear it.

Then it returns, but not alone. A second tone, too true to be called a voice, sounds in a subtle yet distinct harmony, adding its own color to the song. Stronger it grows, a third, a fourth tone joining in, all together weaving a mystical web that draws me in and captures my mind, painting a picture for my eyes to see.

In my inner eye is a vision of a world that is torn and tired, of people weak, pale, and pained. A place where war and peace walk hand in hand and truth is a twisted stage on which all the world treads. I cannot help but wince for the world I see and then realize that I wince for my own.

Cry, weep for our world, but keep hope at your side, for just a bit of hope can do marvels for the worst of us. Do not give in to the overwhelming throb, against which I, too, stand. Light seems so much more fragile than the dark, but it is tenacious and fights at all times; can we do any less? So yes, weep, weep with those who weep, for no good can come from a heart filled and hardened by too many tears. But beware; let not those tears drag you down into the mire, into the sluggish and bland life too many have become bound to. Do not lose your wonder at the natural and unnatural parts of our home; keep that precious view of a child. Listen to the music, as faint as it may seem, as it hovers above the clang and clamor of everyday life.

My voice binds to the music, lifting up into the melody with all the triumphant tremors of emotion. I raise my hands to the song as it moves about, wishing that it would flow through and consume me, fully willing to lose myself in its power, and pleading to be taken along when it leaves with the mist. We must part soon, I know, for already the mist is retreating against the advance of the sun. Inevitably, the mist departs and the song floats away from me on the breeze. Yet I remain and my voice, my song, continues on in the day.