One night he laid facing the stars, wrapped up in his blankets by the fire, worn out,
sweating with fever and haunted by delusions,
when he heard a wonderful voice dance its way into his thoughts.
We have been sick together - it said - I wish I could change that, but we have.
The messenger turned his head towards the voice and there, a good arms length before his nose,
hovered a little sparkling ball of light. Floatting in mid-air it danced to a different rhythm than everything
else around and that moment a gust of wind rose up causing movement that did not affect it.
This is a mirage - thought the messenger - for I surely am awake.
And at that moment he again heard the voice.
We have dreamt that we were well, but we were not. I wish I could change this, but we have.
The messenger realized that mirages make no sound and that he was hearing, and therefore this little ball of
light was a reality.
What of earth's great secrets is this? He was mumbling to himself when he caught sight of a fleeting memory
gliding away in his inner sky.
When I was just a little boy, he said out loud, when I was a little boy I once sat up in a lone tree and gazed
at the clouds from there. The feeling of belonging was overwhelming at that moment and I felt as if the
whole of the natural world with all its spirits and gods was observing me. Something was happening at that
moment which I cannot describe in words, but what I do know of it is that in that tree and those clouds lies
the answer to a question I was then asking myself, and that question was why am I separated from these
beautiful things if I am one and the same with them?
Remembering how he had never been able to find the answer before he realized that now it was right in
front of him. The ball of light was the answer. He knew that if only he could unlock its appearance to see
into its essence he would be able to understand.
At that moment the ball slowly began to float away from him, moving slowly as if requesting him to follow.
The messenger stood in cold sweat and did as was requested.
They walked the dunes together so leaving his encampment behind in the night to never be found again.
When day was breaking they were still walking together.
Then when night was rising they were still walking together.
Actually, one was floating and the other walking, worn out by the fever that had assailed him recently,
and by the dehydration that the high temperatures caused in him. When the moon hung in the center of the
sky they finally arrived at an oasis covered with date palms and inhabited by a little well.
In it the light dove and after it went the messenger, down into the underworld.
They swam underwater, one guiding and the other following, witnessing things that had long passed and
catching glimpses of things yet to come.
It was a pleasant feeling for our messenger, for although he could not breathe he did not feel that instinctive
panic that propels us to. Indeed he was within himself and there he could not die.
Memories of past and visions of future floated by him as he swam, like paintings in a gallery, descriptive of
marking moments to the soul of a painter. And it was one of these that caught his attention, forcing him to
stop swimming and inspect it from closer. So he stopped and with him the bubble too, both looking at one
picture that was yet to be experienced his everyday life.
It was the face of a woman. A face of a woman that was from where he was from, with shining black curled
hair to match her round black eyes and her dark shining skin. With lips so big and inviting that he could
hardly contain the butterflies in his stomach, and with a glint that was like that of the ball of light he
followed.
That's it - he thought to himself.
I've discovered what this little one I've been after is. It's my soul that has come to guide me. And the way it
shines on her means that it is my own light that she reflects. The message I am to bring is to her.
If only I knew what it was, then surely our paths would meet.
He knew he was to meet this girl one day, and that then he would have made poetry of destiny.
The messenger then felt a rush compared only with the one felt when those you love have opened a path to
your heart and reached in.
He felt a lightness invade his mind, bright and pervading, burning all that was negative and dark away
and up in smoke. And taking a deep breath, eyes closed, he captured a scent of her and almost heard her
speak her name to his ear, for now he was engulfed in inebriating music that was tantalizing his senses.
He was fading away from the underworld.
When the messenger next came to, he was lying in the busy streets of a densely populated city.
There was commanding noise and confusion abound, and misery had struck all that it could strike.
There was great poverty there, both physical and spiritual, and like he at the moment, many slept right
there in the streets at the mercy of stampeding feet that rushed to keep moving towards an uncertain
destination.
He shook his head in disbelief.
How could he have gotten there, he wondered, and finding no solution in his jumbling thoughts he decided
to stand and walk aimlessly until fate provided.
He had walked and walked and night was falling upon the city. Cold was coming down with it and the
messenger was feeling disheartened at his current situation. Nothing had yet come to answer his questions,
and although he knew they would, he could not help but to feel alone in that strange place.
This surely was a place to which he did not relate, and walking with this in his mind he suddenly became
aware of music flowing out from an open window somewhere down the street.
He recognized the melody. It was the same one he had heard underwater. And this recognition made him
decide to head towards it.
He arrived at the door of a restaurant. The scent of food was making him dizzy for he had not eaten all day,
so he entered following his hunger who demanded to be taken care of.
As he walked in he was intercepted by a waiter who awaited to seat incoming customers.
Noticing the messenger's run-down appearance the waiter asked what his business was there, and the
messenger unconsciounsly responded that he was a musician who could delight all those who heard his
music, and that he would gift the spectators in change for food to please his belly.
Why he had said this of all things he did not know, it was true that he had learnt to speak music through
instruments as a child, but how he would delight the audience that night he certainly did not know.
It was then that he saw the woman who's name he had almost heard, the one who shone in his light,
the one who was from where he was from.
Sitting at a table staring back at him she was.
Her face expressing both recognition and uncertainty.
With this the messenger strolled over slowly towards the low stage at the end of the room and clearing his
throat loudly to attract attention he silenced the room.
Introducing himself as the messenger he spoke…
…Where we stand in song is always the total sum of all that vibrates and produces sound in that given
moment. Each individual sound being in movement as a result of its conditions and conditioning which in
itself is its surrounding past and present circumstances. The past having brought that movement to its
present state and the present affecting that movement, drawing open the many-fold possibilities.
Where we stand in a song is the harmony of the overall in its unfolding through movement. Cause and
effect generating themselves through infinity.
The will of man can make song in portrayal of the overall it knows. The better he knows the overall, the
more complete his song can become. It is but a portrayal of the overall cause which has an effect within itself
that generates a cause for action. An action that will have an effect on the overall and a reaction within it.
Where we stand in a song is where we stand in a walk. Our walk. Our individual journey through the song
of a universe. It reflects all without and within. How we see and feel determining our view of the harmony
of the universe without and within…
Not many had understood what he had said, but she had, and this he knew. So the messenger proceeded to
pick up his favorite instrument, the drum, and play it with an intent so fervent that all present were
mesmerized by its language.
There was no accompaniment necessary for in that contact between hand and skin something complete
reverberated, and even the local musicians sat back and absorbed the magic in reverence for the messenger
and his message, which by now had become self evident.
When at last the messenger opened his eyes awakening from the trance of the message, the first thing he
looked into were the eyes of his woman, and he then remembered her name, and he was no longer sick,
for glowing in her eyes he saw the little ball of light that told him so.