Posted on January 20, 2008
(to the music of the Main Theme of “Missing you ” by Vangelis)
Have you ever…
been in a crowded, smoke filled bar? Surrounded by people, all of them, glass in hand, talking their heads off?
Have you found yourself withdrawing inside your mind?
Wondering how they manage to all talk at once? With energy and enthusiasm? Their eyes shining? Seemingly enjoying themselves?
Did you listen to the conversations? And feel guilty, because they seemed so shallow and nonsensical to you? And you felt it must be you, and not they, who was at fault?
Did you perhaps try to join in? Did you try to emulate the cocksure swagger of people talking with supreme authority about subjects they knew nothing about?
Did you stand outside your group, in which you were trying to participate, and find your self crying quietly inside?
Did you ever…
suddenly want to escape?
Then I say, ride with me, across the mountains, on my Triumph motorcycle.
Hang on to me, silently, unspeakingly, communicating clearly with me and the road. Communicating clearly with the wind, and the sky.
Wordlessly, we shall accelerate into the curves, leaning over in unison, our bodies clasped together in a silent leather embrace. We shall listen to the music of our engine, beating a defiant message to the world. We shall smell the rain on the air, and watch the birds wheel below the clouds. We shall see the cumulus clouds building, the giant unseen columns of ascending air building castles towering above.
Then I say, fly with me, in my old open cockpit Starduster biplane, with the mismatched repair patches on the fabric, and the oil stains, and the fifty year old engine. Hunker down in the front cockpit, and I shall sit behind you, and fly us up into the heavens.
Wordlessly, we shall gaze out through the flying wires, and watch the world below.
We shall bank smoothly, and the wind will whip your silk scarf, and the sun will play through the arc of the propeller.
Then, I say, walk with me, quietly, along a deserted beach along the coast of war torn Angola. Past the concrete pillboxes, and the old SAM missile site. Past the signs that implore us not to disturb the turtle nests. Past the barbed wire, and the guard post.
Walk with me, I ask you, and listen. Listen to my soul. Listen to my longing. Listen to my aching, restless mind.
Then, I say, gently, put your trust in me.
And we shall talk, softly, of wonderful things.
And there will be hope, and longing.
In sharp contrast.
But always, always, there will be the pain of knowing our separation
from a Creator
we sense, but cannot find…
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 28, 2008, 11:12 am