High atop a snow-capped mountain lived a hermit in a small cottage. Isolated from the world, gnawed at by the teeth of the frigid high altitude winds, he tended to his small fire outside of his home. He lived at the summit of the tallest mount from which he could look in all four compass directions; over the green forests, beyond the orange deserts, across the teal oceans, into the grey cities. He was a king on a polar white thrown high above the rest of the world.

Day after day the hermit would take a seat by the small fire and ensure its survival. He had lit it years ago upon his arrival to his kingdom but, having consumed all his fodder, had been forced to slowly peel away materials from his humble cottage. Not having a means to reignite his small flame he was forced to remain vigilant to its continued burning. As the years went by the fire remained and his abode slowly dwindled.

One evening, as the hermit silently made his way to the cottage and chipped away some tinder to feed the fire, he was suddenly struck by the state of his home. He gazed momentarily at its diminished form, its now unrecognizable shape. Recalling its gradual decent through his even-paced and orderly weathering he found himself presented with a great paradox. In the gradual death of his home, a death that was robbing him of his sanctuary from the elements and portending the end of his own life, his home had evolved, changed, found new form and expressed new meaning. In its gradual death new life had been brought forth in the form of an ever-changing piece of art.

Yet he was the only one to have witnessed the slow transformation, the changing forms. He stared intently, surveying the finality of his work, seeing the careful yet unconscious cuts that had torn his home down. He reminisced about the shapes his home had taken as he cut it apart, the curves that were born, the sharp minarets and dagger like wooden stalagmites. The light of the sun had refracted from the icy snow and cast haunting and captivating shadows on its meandering surfaces. It, his home, had breathed, shifted uneasily yet gracefully, as he had gone about his life. He had unconsciously witnessed the great rending of the mornings form and witnessed the final birth of a new form at nightfall.

So his days had gone, witnessing yet not knowing, aware but not cognizant. The great irony of the world, its indefinable nature, had been lost on him until now. Yet he had seen it. For those last fleeting days of his life he tended to that knowledge as he tended to his flame. And as it quietly sputtered out, its warmth and light dissipating into a lonely landscape, so did his wisdom.

Hallow ground is trodden by weary feet, toes curled to the earth as they sluggishly make their way to the catacombs. It is a dreary day with a light drizzle dancing softly on the headstones. Not much is heard aside from the deep breaths heaving in and out of the solemn walkers. They all slowly make their way in one general direction, yet the course they follow seems haphazard at best. But for the one who sits alone on the tree stump it is quite a spectacle. What a joy to behold!

Someone stops momentarily and the young observer holds his breathe. What will this person do? What is his purpose? Oh the anticipation! But that observer is sorely disappointed when the meditator snaps to and continues on, without a hint to new life.

Such a life might seem dull, simply sitting in one location and doing nothing but observing. But there are definite rewards, like when an overturned casket was assaulted by thieving crows. The body was consumed in minutes, the family pulling at their hair in disbelief. He had remained on his stump throughout the family’s ordeal and grinned.

“How amusing!” he had thought to himself, “What a grand spectacle!”

He had listened, one sunny afternoon, as the groundskeeper had methodologically gone from empty plot to empty plot calling out names.

“Here shall lie the Mayor, who in his grandiosity consumed all!

“Here shall lie the pretty whore, who succumbed to her own vices!

“Here shall lie the schoolboy, who lost himself to his naivety!”

“What a prophet!” the observer had thought to himself, “I hope that I too one day will bear his gift!”

On another cold midnight, he had watched as two foxes bound from stone to stone. They sniffed, they marked, they played, and then disappeared into the darkness of the woods.

“What freedom!” the observer had exclaimed in wonderment, “I hope that I too will be wild and free someday!”

Little did the observer know that he was a prophet, and wild and free. That truth was hidden to him, whose only focus was on the world around him. He had little understanding of himself.

But in moments as the one of the procession, there was little need to consider one’s existence. So much could be gleaned, if only for amusement, from the lives of others. The world truly was a grand spectacle!

“I cannot do it.” was his only reply. “I simply cannot do it. I know you have asked me time and time again to move forward with it, but it is utterly impossible.” She looked at him sternly, her arms crossed tightly across her bosom. She was relentless, sometimes shrieking, other times hitting. He had pulled away when possible but it was difficult to escape her ravings. Once again he found himself cowering in the corner as she stood towering over him. He felt helpless, yet he did not cry. He tried to reason with her, as he had done many times before, but it never seemed to work. She would simply lash out at him. It was as if she screamed out, “Emotion, you fool! Emotion! Emotion! Emotion! Nothing but emotion!” A few days ago he had raised his voice and ventured: “But I think there is more to this than just emotion. Will you at least consider the possibility?” Oh, what torrential anger she unleashed on him for his candor. She had wailed and lashed with such ferocity that he nearly fainted through sheer terror. When he came to she had taken a seat across the room, but she was still poised to continue the assault. So he sunk back into the corner and waited, thinking. It seemed as if today would end in very much the same fashion. She was not as vicious yet her cold stare portended a greater fury. So he quieted down and went back to thinking.