How long, do you think, should a man wait for his dreams to seemingly manifest themselves into the realm of reality that others deem real? How hard should he work to secure a future that someone else is always looking to take from him? And when will he realize that most, if not all, of his endeavors are futile in their attempts?
He see's something on the horizon that others do not see. He looks past the evident white whispers of clouds that loom in the distance. Others that he comes in contact with on his daily scurrying about in this world seem to be oblivious of what lies just out of view. But he knows, he feel it in his soul his very essence tingling with the sensation of what lies ahead. The Encroaching Darkness!
He has exhausted all of his mental abilities and has failed terribly. It appears that every way he turns, every avenue he ventures down, becomes blocked, a dead end to a once magnificent dream, now fading from his mind, his thoughts.
Each one he shares his thoughts with turn. Perhaps not meaning to, but they turn, mocking his every attempt at realizing a dream. Never sharing his thoughts or those random dreams he has nursed for most of his life. Weak and tired, unable to carry on or unwilling to dream any more, he sits and looks off into the horizon. That horizon that gentle white, fake, artificial clouds shroud the truth, the inevitable ever moving, ever looming truth...The Encroaching Darkness!
He has a plan. Yes, a plan, yet not one he can share, nor does he wish he could. Each dream, each fantasy, each ideal always taken from him, robbing him of satisfaction, peace, tranquility and filling his soul with solitude. Regardless, it is taken away and none understand but he himself. Wicked souls laughing in the shadows, snickering at the mention of his name, his dreams, his view of reality.
A shadow of the fabled movie The Matrix. Would it not be ironic if what we have grown to know as reality but were a dream in itself? Ours but fed to us by some horrendous evil presence, hell bent on keeping us from realizing the truth. What if? But we know it can't be. The answer would be too simple, the reason behind it all, to logical. Understanding why dreams fade. Why those who do not need continue to reap bountifully while those who seek, never find what they sought? Yet failing to see beyond the ridge, beyond the pretty facade of mist we call clouds. Failing to listen to the sound, the thunderous sound of what must come next...The Encroaching Darkness!
He must remain silent. He must bite his tongue when he wishes he could reach out, reach out and warn others. He knows and realizes that he cannot, under any circumstance, for if he does, his goal will be realized by those who seek to rob him of it and leaving him once again, helpless. He wishes he could though, wishes he could reach through the shadows and find the very few who remain. Those rare kindred spirits who need no words or audible means of communication to calm his restless soul. They are there, but few they be, few who are still able to hold onto long thought silly and false abilities to see what others can't see or won't see.
He lies in bed at night, sending as deep as he can send, yet like some form of crustacean, withdrawing back into his own shell when a response or reply is felt. His distrust of all around him, the inability to confide or to share his intimate thoughts always being turned against him, thus never able to share. It hinders him from reaching out, touching those souls who seek the same as he does, yet fearing the truth behind that joining of minds in the night. But should he? Should he reach out, trust once again? He needs to, mainly because he knows that they see what he does. They hear the thunder that booms far past the horizon. They see the lightning flashing, searing the ground and electrifying the atmosphere around the powerful bolts. They know. They understand and are able to see...The Encroaching Darkness.
The plan, the only one he has left. It is the only way he knows to cheat those who strive to take his last bit of hope away, yet will he win in the end. He knows what must be done and sadly, he knows the outcome. None will understand, none will smile and think of him. None will say, "He had no other choice". None will remember back, think back on him and his many illicit dreams that he worked so hard to find, to solidify, to change form a vaporous dream he had late in the night into a reality the next day. All forgotten, all lost in the folds of time and space. Yes, none will say out loud....it was a wise decision he made. he had no reason to hold onto the thin string of silk which bound his dreams together.
So he will do what he must and none be the wiser.
He stands on the hilltop. His eyes focused on the horizon so far away. His face saddened by what he knows yet no one else able to see. His ears focused on the sound that appears to be so far away yet so close. He stands alone as he always has. He never understood why he was this way, why he was unique in a world he is so separate from. A world he wondered if he was ever really a part of. A lifetime of being different. An eternity of searching, longing and dreaming, yet finding those endeavors to be frantic and unrealized. He stand on the hilltop, a slight breeze playing with his hair, tickling his ears as if nature itself was taunting him. He is aware. He is wise and feels the truth as no one else does and knows what is beyond the horizon he now stares at. And now, he waits for what must now be. What must now take place. Finally after all of these years, it has arrived and he must deal with it as he knows to do. He and he alone, alone as he has always been, he shall deal in the only way he knows how. He stands on the hilltop, looking off into the horizon, waiting for what must be, as prophesied, and now it is here...The Encroaching Darkness.
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