A paraphrase of a scene from the film The Little Prince:
The sand just flitted away as the lost and lonely man opened his hand in the night. It was windy, but not a kind wind. The vast sea of sand lay before him and he, like an island, lay within it, alone. And as the hot air blew away the sand from his hand it also carried away his hope. Tragic really, for it was a sight to behold, the desert. The moon was on vacation that night so every star could be seen. The sound of the sand dunes rushing across the expanse reminded him of the rain, oddly enough. It was soothing, so as he stared at the stars, alone, an island in a sea of sand he peacefully drifted to sleep. A faint giggle, and then, “If you please, draw me a sheep.” The man’s eyes sputtered to life, suddenly he was startled. “If you please, draw me a sheep.” There, in the middle of the desert, a boy, a young boy, stood before him. Rubbing his eyes in disbelief the man looked about himself, just to make sure he was in fact in the middle of the desert as he remembered. He stared, unsure what to make of it all. “Draw me a sheep,” the boy commanded, only as little boys can. The man swiftly jumped to his feet, and after only a brief protest drew a sheep. “When a mystery is too overpowering, one dare not disobey.”
A Poem, conflated with Job’s encounter with the Lord:
Every time the sun comes up I sit alone to plan my ways.
I think, I read, I think some more, I pray.
The world outside, my life within, its the agony of the ever present struggle and the never present way, how do I live my convictions.
Ideals. If you have no ideals, why have any ideas. But I have no idea how to achieve my ideals. Not for lack of plans, it’s the lack of play.
The world out there plans its way, and its plans are to end the game.
It’s the agony of the ever-present struggle of the never present way.
Are my ideals real or are they only real ideas, the world inside my head seems unreal because I can’t seem to get ahead.
The critics watch, they’re critical. Always speaking but never saying anything. They criticize, every word, every decision.
They know you’re always wrong, but they’re never right.
Every day, the sun comes up and I sit alone to plan my ways.
I am alone thinking, reading, crying, praying, begging, explaining, acting, resting without finding any rest.
The rest all know, and tell you what to do. You listen, but they never do. They have it all figured out, somehow, but never you. I always try to do the right thing, but I am always wrong, they say. It’s my mistake.
The man of conviction is convicted. The man of morals is immoral.
Ethically unethical, practically impractical, always thinking but never thoughtful, so they say.
Ideologically unideal, stably unstable, why do I care.
Why should I have ideas about ideals when all my ideas are not ideal?
The critic says I’m critical, they should know, but they don’t because they’re critical. It’s not my mistake it’s theirs.
I know they’re wrong because they never do what’s right.
The pot calls the kettle black because it’s a pot.
The critic criticizes the idealist because they have no idea. Always talking because they never listen so how can they have anything worth listening to.
My mistake for listening to you.
Then the LORD answered Job out of the storm… Then Job answered the Lord… I repent in dust in ashes.
“When a mystery is too overpowering, one dare not disobey.”