If I am dust, what should I make from that?
As a man, I am bones and flesh, and my name. But all of it is now, and now is fleeting, gone eternally—here, in this maze and tussle as I live it. What is becomes what was and is again.
Others, long dead, also dust, taught virtue, steadfastness, and kindness, careful not to abide what other men pursued, thought, or said. Do not be trapped in their world. Be trapped in yours. Is the man who is a bother to you a true bother? His gait, words, and smell are a flowing raiment of raw wool no different than yours to him. When you encounter him, and there are many of him, is that your nature reminding you that you are dust? That in nothing else but the natural state you can exist?
I will not follow these men blindly, heeding their advice. They would disapprove of me finding my beginning at their end. I will measure their words as wisdom or ignorance, nothing more, and as I do, I will harshly observe three faces staring at me, perhaps prophecies, perhaps rapture, all masks for purchase. I will meet them as I have a modest say in the matter. I am no more than a leaf that falls from a tree, free and dead, in the clutches of gravity and redemption.
I fix my mettle now and listen.
With a smile, one speaks: Turn, take my hand, and walk.
With a scowl, one speaks: Turn, take my hand, and walk.
With a frown, one speaks: Turn, take my hand, and walk.
Nature unto itself is a natural outcome, always eager to reveal itself.
Turn, take, and walk.
To the natural man inside me, my world.
Turn, take, and walk.
To the man birthed from dust and returned to it whole.
Turn, take, and walk.
To pursue audacity and sanctuary.
Turn, take, and walk.
To trust my eyes closed.
Turn, take, and walk.
To write my story in dust.
Turn, take, and walk.