I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul.
Night.
It is a time of stillness, a time of silence. An inky void engulfs half a globe, sending billions to sleep. It is a time of absolute quiescence.
Yet I, hunched over a glowing liquid crystal display and millions of whirring transistors, find neither peace nor slumber. The roar of my own soul within me rebels against the external calm. A tumultuous battle rages inside my own being. Louder than any storm, stronger than any gale, the conflict allows me no rest, plaguing my thoughts as it blows me hither and thither in an otherwise silent realm. Through the tempest, I hear the voices of two worlds crying out to me, beckoning.
One world is ancient and to the East. With its imperfect tendrils, this old world tugs at me across the moonlit terrain, self-consciously apologizing for its imperfections, promising it will do better next time. It is a world of known comforts, loves, opportunities, and disappointments.
One world is new and to the West. This new world calls across the sky. It is a world of advertised satisfaction, alleged satiation, and terrifying uncertainty.
As the arbiter of my soul, I am rent by these worlds and their words, by the decision facing me. I am blessed and cursed by the question I dared to ask myself. It is more a blessing than a curse, this freewill I have wrested away from the Fates. Yet as it is liberating, so too is it horrifying.
Night carries on in darkness and silence, oblivious to the war raging on in a corner of her dominion.
The decision shall be made on the morrow, this I know. At that time, a future will be chosen. With it, any sour seeds of regret must be obliterated, leaving no chance for the insidious agent to sprout and incite civil war within me.
The winds of change and establishment still tornade against each other. The question they pose, a glistening singularity of causality, hangs in the air. On the morrow, they shall have their answer.
It is a time of stillness, a time of silence. An inky void engulfs half a globe, sending billions to sleep. It is a time of absolute quiescence.
Yet I, hunched over a glowing liquid crystal display and millions of whirring transistors, find neither peace nor slumber. The roar of my own soul within me rebels against the external calm. A tumultuous battle rages inside my own being. Louder than any storm, stronger than any gale, the conflict allows me no rest, plaguing my thoughts as it blows me hither and thither in an otherwise silent realm. Through the tempest, I hear the voices of two worlds crying out to me, beckoning.
One world is ancient and to the East. With its imperfect tendrils, this old world tugs at me across the moonlit terrain, self-consciously apologizing for its imperfections, promising it will do better next time. It is a world of known comforts, loves, opportunities, and disappointments.
One world is new and to the West. This new world calls across the sky. It is a world of advertised satisfaction, alleged satiation, and terrifying uncertainty.
As the arbiter of my soul, I am rent by these worlds and their words, by the decision facing me. I am blessed and cursed by the question I dared to ask myself. It is more a blessing than a curse, this freewill I have wrested away from the Fates. Yet as it is liberating, so too is it horrifying.
Night carries on in darkness and silence, oblivious to the war raging on in a corner of her dominion.
The decision shall be made on the morrow, this I know. At that time, a future will be chosen. With it, any sour seeds of regret must be obliterated, leaving no chance for the insidious agent to sprout and incite civil war within me.
The winds of change and establishment still tornade against each other. The question they pose, a glistening singularity of causality, hangs in the air. On the morrow, they shall have their answer.