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The Great Pretender (standard:other, 802 words)
Author: J. NicklausAdded: Feb 18 2007Views/Reads: 2604/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The attack and decay of foolish enterprise
 



A large picture window, roughly ten foot wide by 5 foot high, frames the
beginnings of a crisp February morning in Franklin Square--a blanket of 
what, from a distance, appears to be gentle white snow covers all 
exposed to it in its wintery state of grace. All but the pine trees 
bereft of foliage. The sun catches the veneer of white just right and 
it springs to life in a quiet burst of refracted sparkles. 

From within the warm interior of a high rise the picture, as presented,
seems almost idyllic, if it weren't for the knowledge of reality just 
beyond the pane. For stepping outside the conditioned confines of the 
building presently brings natures truth to bear, a pristine, 
non-apologetic, cold slap in the face. The white isn't snow at all, 
it's one constant sheet of ice. Clouds amble along, caressing the blue 
with the feinged innocence of white and shaded gray underbellies; and 
the wind is no afterthought--it's an invisible blade used by Mother 
Nature as an ever-present stilleto. 

Looking out from the inside is the visual equivalent of Tchaikovsky's
Dance of the Reed Flutes, cotton candy for the eyes, an impish 
prance-around for the unwary, or reality-adverse. The other side of the 
glass is more like The Hall of the Mountain King, slightly mischeivous, 
encroaching, closer to the aural truth. 

The Pretender, ever content to avoid the truth, sits amongst the reed
flutes, ignominiously parading about as the self-imposed Greatness He 
is, baton ready to cast direction upon all within His purview, 
blissfully unaware of the rich complexities on the other side of the 
picture frame. 

Why can't all simply accept his innate Goodness and kneel in rapt
loyalty before him? Truly, the square peg is only square because 
everyone else chooses to see it as such--with little to no 
demonstrative exertion or effort on His part, the peg shall also 
succumb to His All-Knowing Greatness and plummet without resistance 
into its assigned round hole. 

And all shall be right with the world. so let it be written, so let it
be done. 

The everyday-man, the politician, the celebrity--all pay solicitude to
the rigors of daily reality, deftly walking the blurred line between 
choice and reason with caution, and upon abandonment of either allow 
themselves to become the usurped slaves of the Great Pretender, riding 
the wave's chicane towards the Promised Horizon. No mountain or valley 
shall be an obstacle if liquid be thy carrier. Careen atop the wave's 
ridge carefully, notice the wave is comprised of the actions of many, 
not the purported achievements of the few. The far wiser stand upon the 
beach, having a healthy respect for tide and current, and the counsel 
of experience. 

But listen to the donkey bray and know that he is trying to tell you
something. In his own convoluted, perhaps misunderstood way, he 
beseeches all to listen, stirred beyond all doubt that he is right, if 
not harmfully stubborn. Some will pity the donkey, some will use it as 
a beast-of-burden, others will listen long enough and come to 
understand, even speak, the donkey's language. It has been noted in 
some circles of civilized society that there is little difference 
between the jackass and man. Also noted has been the tongue-in-cheek 
philosophic reply: Does this not wrong the jackass? 

Is the Pretender so far removed from His own humanity that he fails to
see it in those around him? Has He enthroned Himself as the Lumberjack 
Sultan, and all those around him but His forest, each tree only His own 
to fell and use as He sees fit? Again, the wiser of us heed the whisper 
of the forest, even take refuge in its requiem of peacefulness, 
embracing its natural resourcefulness, not merely using its resources. 

So why fight the Great Pretender--maybe for the chance to prove what's
right or wrong...or only to prove what's gone? Is the Pretender really 
so bad, is he a pawn within his own game, perhaps only playing by rules 
which he believes are part of the current game? If we all knew what we 
were doing would we not be doing it right now? The smell of His 
seduction makes it hard to breathe. 

Is He calloused or numb from God knows what: the tenacious mourn of
heartbreak, the vile mingling of tears and anger, pride swallowed 
whole? 

As light begins to melt into muted evening the ice sheet becomes a
linear representation of ying-and-yang, the lengthy, dark shadows of 
buildings cast their pall upon the square displacing the allure of 
innocence with the Mona Lisa smile of darkness. The ten-by-five foot 
window frame slowly becomes at once a window and a mirror. In the 
sharpest of glimpses could it be that the soft, almost transparent 
reflection in the glass is the Great Pretender? 


   


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