The Boy Who Dreamt

         The clock-tower had not yet struck four when the boy found himself toiling the hardships of his plague. Sickened with acute nature, his being did not hold onto familiarity; his thoughts did not lie dormant; his eyes did not yield sterile. Scratching battled against the roar of sky’s thundering demand. His pen glided against stale parchment, but it mattered not.

         He poured his plague, sickness, nature, onto the paper. No longer would he lie immobile in despair. No longer would he grasp reality. He cried. Whispers turned to quiet speech in the quill’s waves. Laid in simple, black lines, whispers became howls.

         Ignorance did not besiege – it was not like most maladies, sudden and critical. Ignorance descended upon its targets as raindrops descended upon grass. It was a rain so light that those who slept beneath its downfall were not aware of any presence.

         Prisoner to the world, the soul fell silent. The moment his quill fell, as did he. Blackened torrents blasting from the clouds dissolved. Light shone through to him – a light that commanded an audience void of words. The prisoner became a scholar.  Perceiving ether, the boy knew: and with his knowledge, at last dreamt.