Enter through the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the way is broad that leads to destruction, and there are many who enter through it. For the gate is small and the way is narrow that leads to life, and there are few who find it.
There’s a certain loneliness that looms over the city dweller. Even with family, they never have their roots truly planted. The roots of legacy, tradition, honor. Nothing like that. It doesn’t ‘fit’ the city dweller. You ask them who they are and they stare at you bewildered and you’ll hear them squabbling to understand your question. You ask the same of a farmer, or any other agrarian forager and you’ll be regaled a tale of legend. Where their family took origin and how they came to be. Their legacy flows not exclusively in their blood, but in their heart and mind. It is who they are. A part of the mythos of the universe, not some conjuring of the mind, which the city dweller scoffs at like it were a fairy tale.
For their scope is turned and limited inward. Their struggles are rooted in the mundane and take their queue from boredom, not survival. They dream of purpose, as the only thing that can bring about the craving of a ‘true’ purpose is boredom. They exist to float within the steel framework of the city, whose roots of steel beams taint the soil of the earth like a poison drop into a well.
But the loneliness: feast upon their eyes. Their friends are systems, ideas. Never people. They crave camaraderie but know not where to look. They wander in packs of loners, each caught in the web of their own mind, dreaming, craving for something to kick them out and bring them into the real world. Something to make them be apart of something larger than themselves.
Too smart for God, he is silenced.
Too clever for man, he is pushed away.
Too satiated for pleasure, she is ignored.
What is he then left with but himself? He stands so tall he basks in his own shadow. Tormented by his own darkness, toiling away, craving the once beautiful gift of sunlight.
This is the city dweller. They are their own undoing.
They stand like hollow totems awaiting my hand to bring them to crumble. But I look upon you. I don’t see this hopelessness. You bask in the darkness of uncertainty, searching ever endlessly for the truth, while they are empty vessels awaiting a cause that meets their prideful, unfounded, meaningless standard.
I ask you this, before you make your fatal decision, will you take my hand and let me be your guide?
I will show you the true light, the one that guides me and my comrades.
Look upon my lantern. It shines, not by fire from some fickle match to be charred and thrown away, but by fires of truth, reason itself incarnate in the constant perpetuation of igniting and burning. Ever resuming itself. Don’t you see? Let it defog the lies that bind your mind.
I am the way, and the way is broad, yet they brave enough to follow still misstep and fall along my path, never to meet my end. I am not for the weak craving ease. Unfortunate they never find their path.
Will you meet my end?