I wake up at five every morning in order to get a jumpstart on my day and most of the time it feels like the day got much longer than it’d normally be. Every Wednesday I’ll post a writing prompt and respond to it in whatever way I wish in order to challenge myself in new writing endeavors.
PROMPT: Grab a random book, flip to a random page, and the first sentence on the first page is your prompt. You can incorporate the quote into your writing, describe it, interpret it, do whatever you wish.
My sentence is, “The man was speaking the language of alchemy.” From The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.
The rocks with their grinding tones grumble along the river bottoms and down steep valleys when their precarious stance is disturbed. With their gray-worn skins and rough scars they sit patiently on Earth. He, however, walked.
Among the stones his withered hands reflected their marbled countenance and veiny streaks ran through like quart veins in the bedrock.
His voice, too, rasped out in a mountain of rock carving off the face of a mountainside.
And old he was, oh so old and withered that not much more of him could quite keep up with the unity of process human beings exist in. In other words that great progression of a million processes keeping all in homeostasis was mostly broken, his own hard determination keeping him from fading out like windblown sand against stone.
And still he searched, endlessly, rocks crunching underfoot, towards the answer to a question he long has seeked.
The trees above creaked in response to his weary joints, the weight of life making it harder to move, harder to take that next lunge over land. And while the leafy fingers fluttered and great branches swung in a wave, the man missed these subtle things.
So hell-bent on his own humanity he always failed to see it was all around him.
We shan’t tell him that.
We must let him find it.
And so with muscles that fought against an unwavering mind, he pushed forth into the ever closing distance. Getting closer to absolutely nothing that meant everything to him.
The streams he passed twinkled a wink in his direction and its gentle laughter swirled around his deaf senses. As he kneeled to drink those two blue eyes started back, asking him to see before it’s too late. But the eyes were blue and mixed with the waters rippling extension of wind springing by lightly in the warm air.
He no longer felt that, however. He no longer felt his hair tousled by playful hands reminiscent of a joyous father or sun on the skin left by the gentle lips of a loved one.
It was simply no longer his way to be.
Eyes forward, ever watching and ever blind to the lives of the non-living, he kept walking.
Years and years and empty years this continued like it always had, his body now sinking lower to the ground, his life now reaching the end of an endless land.
And still he did not understand.
Ignorance, pitiful ignorance it was to believe in his ideals.
In his mind he remembered the man in that black empty box talking without saying anything, helping without extending a hand, letting him in on an incredible opportunity.
“The man was speaking the language of alchemy,” he thought.
And as that one thought consumed him, drove him to walk on the never ending treadmill of desire, he reached his present point, wearied, broken, fading away from his one last thought leaning against a great oak tree.
And his last thought was this;
“I wish I had stopped to watch the Hawks in the sky and the Trees in the fall and the great rush of Water against my skin.”
As his mind faded he looked up at the great blue sky, through the shimmering green leaves, and realized with a fading breath that life wasn’t meant to be chased.
It was meant to be lived.
And so we learn that the meaning of life is constantly, everlastingly all around us.
That’s the power of Nature.