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Simon woke up and rubbed his eyes, looking around. All around him was dead brown grass, and at his feet a rock held down a piece of paper. The dusty road led over the hill, and the sun began to hurt his eyes. He sat up to peer at the paper, dust falling as he did so.
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The ink was still wet, the cursive type flowed across the page like the wisps of a long forgotten wind. The flourishes of some secret hand caught his attention, but so much as the declamatory prophetic voice of what he read:
'You will travel the road, and you will travel yourself. You will travel to me..until then, you cannot know who you are'
And thus Simon, ignorant of his heritage, his purpose, even his appearance, stumbled forth into the haze that hovered sublimely before the horizon. He stumbled forth into his own life, not knowing where it might take him, or what he would find. Someone would have the answers.
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Reflecting on the twisted path that lead him here, Simon traced the imprint of time back in his mind. There were a few people who could have changed the course of events, Brigette the most likely of them.If only he had walked out of that Cafe three years ago, and thrown that white rose into the steel mesh jaws of a city garbage can, it was the rose that started him down this trail...the Rose.
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Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha
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