In a moment I was called a bureaucrat and a dictator. I was told I’ve spent so much time up top I’ve forgotten how the people at the bottom still think. How they feel. How they live and die and prosper and are crushed, decimated, dessicated, turned to poison and ingested in the cannibalistic universe we live in. All these things in fewer words, but all these things nonetheless.
The truth is I haven’t forgotten. My hide has grown thicker. My skin has grown harder. My muscles, stronger; my bones, impassioned, have turned to steel. And my mind–that precious vestibule of unarticulated prowess–my mind has only sharpened in these days of misery as I live life. But I have not forgotten.
People don’t know me. Even when I see a man a hundred times a day, even when I share my deepest thoughts and my most hidden inclinations and my most obvious and embarrassing faults with him, he does not know me. Maybe I don’t speak as clearly as I think I speak. Or maybe, as is more probable, I’m simply deeper than I think I’m deep.
The truth is this truth is–and I’m in another world. I exist on a frequency with a wavelength unknown to most. My mind wanders in ways untold, ways unusual and once burned at the stake or crucified or wrapped in soaked cotton with the flames licking underneath, the sacred writings scorned and sent skyward, like stars of infinity breathed in to blight the blackening lungs beneath the wings of the angels of death.
At face value, this is in its entirety rambling. I’m unable to name names, to speak honesty in its entirety–I respect myself far too much for that, and there are far too many names to name anyways, far too many instances of circumstantiality to substantiate any singular and particular claim. Generalities may be dangerous, but they’re the safest option yet. And yet, none of this is without purpose, without intention, without precise and preconceived and articulated intent. I see things for the whole, for the direction they’re moving in, and likewise, every word I’ve written has its place, its meaning herein.
I never thought I’d ever say this, never thought I ever could when in high school little lines with arrows baffled me and I didn’t know a sin from sine or seconds from secants, but today, today I see things simply as vectors. I see them for their magnitude and their direction. But I also see unto which plane and into which time that arrow is directed. I’ve been through enough trials and experienced enough errors so many times that I can see ahead where others cannot. Some claim this generation is imbued with a need instancy and immediacy and imprisoned in the present–yet here I stand, my mind torn in two, half in the past, the other half so far ahead that the present is a distant memory more akin to a dream than reality.
I was once told that my existence must be a sad existence. That my simple philosophy that humanity is capable of experiencing but one true emotion–and that emotion is fear–has confused many and caused some to think I am perpetually morose. Perhaps I am, but I work around it. I’ve crafted myself into the perfect optimist, for in truth I am the prime pessimist. I am a realist. I see the facts and I predict the future and I steer the course toward the safest shore–for the storms will take us where we need to be, for the waves will wash it all away, for the sunken depths of the sea are as cozy as twilight on the beach.
I sometimes wish people would understand me. Then again sometimes I wish I could understand myself. I catch my patterns, track my synapses and crisscrossed cognition, but there are currents deeper I still cannot see. But I understand that at the root of everything is something none can see, too great, too frail, to be seen and believed and too small, too magnificent, to be unseen and imagined. There is an antithesis to fear. My optimism insists I must believe it is so, invest my faith in its existence and bet upon my mortality that at death I shall see it. But reality suggests we are beyond it. Reality suggests that nothing can ever come of it.
So what if I’m tired of being the nice guy with his sheathed sword held high? If they want me to wield my power, if they want me to stab them through the heart, then let the blood flow. I will be impersonal. I will exist in my own world and only overlap at the edges. Handheld seconds shall exist in eternity. Blood shall drip from dreams and turmoil shall touch upon nightmares to cure them.
If people want unadulterated power, it’s theirs for the taking. If people want silence and solitude, it’s there to be found. If people want understanding, if people crave the truth of all existence, if people cling to the promise that therein within the universe lies at its core the complete theory of everything, then keep breathing. Take my breath as yours and tie our heartstrings as one. I ask for nothing more than I need to take. I demand no more than what I’m willing to offer. Is that so unclear?
The truth is my claimant cannot see me standing in my entirety and my defendant is too expansive to be seen only in part. How can I speak well and lead as well as I do if I cannot get processes and procedures? How can I hold onto all my connections and craft characters with the ease and proficiency I do if I cannot understand people? There are things in this world that exist beyond the both of us. Then there are things in this world that merely exist.
So let me ask you this: What is the point in being visionary if no one wants to see?