Whispers

I hear the whispers of a gentler soul. They come to me as indistinguishable noise, the rustling of leaves, the echoes of a wind long past. They are the breaths of an unspeakable name, yet a name that is familiar. I hear them in the rain as it ends its downward journey. I hear them in the lovingly empty spaces of music. I hear them through the eyes, and hands, and mouth. And though indistinguishable as far as language may be concerned, I know what it is that this gentler soul has to tell me, for the soul is mine, and the whispers too. They are longing for me, weeping for me, reaching for my hand in a barely lit blackness.

If I was a lesser man, maybe I would turn away. Maybe I would choose to follow vanity, or pleasure. Maybe. But I'm about to make the greatest comeback in the history of mankind. I can't afford not to. How can we turn aside from things that need doing, questions that need answering?

So the whispers of a gentler soul become the battle cry of a man named Me.