Inside of us there is a void that imagination will never fill. There is a sound so quiet, buried so deep, that it can only be heard by a handful of people. Few, if any, will ever listen, and of those, even less will feel the need to follow the sound.
But some will follow. Those who see past the obvious. Past the imagination and years and countless mistakes. Those who decide that time is more comforting when experienced together. Those who reach the void, and we recognize as friends.
Allow me to let one of mine introduce himself.
There is a certain logic to declaring war upon oneself. Although not an action of utter necessity, I am a firm believer that such inner conflict and turmoil will ultimately lead an individual to, shall I say, climb the heights of a mountain in order to reach an enlightened apex called understanding. Whatever it is that brings one to satisfactory conclusions, it’s safe to say that an amount of struggle does take place. In the immortal words of Friedrich Nietzsche, “What does not kill us only makes us stronger”.
And it is in this context that I must pay homage to this tidbit of unequivocal truth. I must confess that a war rages within as I debate with myself. I am being swept away like the spirits of March. Shall I enter Keith’s “new” website like a lamb or a lion? I know that the lamb would appease our pastoral friends. But there’s something undeniably righteous about “being a lion”. Maybe it’s “pride”. Maybe it’s “king”. Sounds reasonable. For those who know absolutely nothing about me, I WAS the homecoming king of Dawson (my hometown in Minnesota) for a day.
Or maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe it’s all in the lion that I do not possess. I am, by profession, an instructor. Image my desire in possessing a thunderous roar so that my voice might resonate throughout the classroom. Terror has a way of getting ones attention. Or better yet, how about a pair of sharp retractable claws?! Imagine my unabated power!! George Bush, strolling through the sands of Iraq, crushing the skulls of earth’s scourging infidels, destroying all that was God’s creation. I am Randy, and “I approve of this message”. Pomp. Ardor. Horseshit.
But who am I trying to kid. I am nothing more than a middle aged lamb. My bleat is weak and my hooves are worn, chipped from endlessly writing instructions and assignments upon an equally old chalkboard, amounting to nothing more than a reflection of what I am becoming. It’s all futile and meaningless. I have been left behind, just as the advent of March’s brief foray with spring has already succumbed to the turbulence of April. It is a time that March will never know. I wonder if she really cares. I don’t.
I am Randy. I prefer to be known as Keith’s good friend.