Action

The man stands in the rain. He is not passive. He is action. Above his head, he holds his message. Blazing in yellow, blasting out into the world, standing out all the more so because of the darkness of the day, his flame of passionate belief is there for all to see. He is courage. He is a beating heart throwing its passion out into the world, starfire hurtling out into the universe.

Gray people swirl about him, ignoring. They take a few steps to the left, a little skip to the right, anything to avoid eye contact, any kind of human interaction with him, to stay out of his light, away from the heat of his fire. That is why no one will remember their names.

Gray is not the only color on display. There are shadows too. They are metaphysical barbs with legs, the thorns on the roses, the spines that jab into everyone's feet along the road. They mock the passion. They pantomime the fire, attempting to make it meaningless. Only they seem to know the "truth" which is their own only, their private lie. They are nothing but false prophets, tricksters who take in the foolish. They try to take as many grays as possible, to turn them black, light them up with red eyes exposing a hellish soul.

Yet what am I? I passed him by. But I did not shift to be further away, shunning him like a leper, nor did I mock his action like a Pharisee. But I take no action myself. Exegesis: His beliefs are not mine, his battle not in my war. I pass him, I applaud his courage in taking action, and I reflect on the rarity of his kind. He is not political, but he could be if he had a message with wider appeal, with a call to action for other people. Who indeed IS political today? Who will come from the depths of academia to lead, to take our system of government, and the people that live IN and THROUGH it, for whom it exists, and return it to the constitutional ideals of our fathers? Return to action, involvement, empowerment as individuals. Rare are these men today. In many respects Martin Luther King is the last such man to grace our country. He built a public, he used politics in the classical sense, and the change he wrought in this nation stands for itself. People mocked him too. People repressed him, as Mahatma Ganhdi, Great Soul, was also repressed. Yet despite it all giving up their private concerns, they ACTED, and because of their action, and their dedication to their publics their names are long remembered and revered, and the results of their action carry on.

Those that mock are merely those that envy another's courage. Their nature is exemplary of failure. They will continue on in that vein their whole lives. They will make their snide remarks, their churlish statements, to the amusement of the darkened sycophantic pack of fools that they build around themselves, and their name is known for now, but in 10 years, they will be as dust, gone and forgotten by those that thought them so important.

Discussion is the root of all progression.
Contribute to the debate, or contribute to your own supression.
Say anything, for to say nothing is to be a forgotten dream.
Take action, for to be forgotten is worse than death.
Death is nothing but the end, but to exist unknown is a living hell that defeats the human purpose.