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A Calloused Man


By Docyele LlenretepPublished 5 years ago 4 min read

A Calloused Man

Now time is a fickle thing, a creature bereft of mercy, bent on keeping us trapped in its paradox. Like three fates holding our thread between their spindly, crooked fingers ready to sever our continuum at a heart's beat. One sister, whom we shall name the Maiden, wishes to keep us contained in our repetition compulsions, knowing all too well how to ensnare us within moments of pain and regret. She is the bane of the young child, the gate keeper of the calloused man. The other sister, whom we shall name the Mother, has stepped into the ether to await both the child and the man. Constantly observe, she does, for this is her nature. The oldest and wisest of all the sisters, whom we shall name the Crone, plagues the calloused man by giving him dreams that have yet to come giving him hope for Mother who has yet to pour her compassion on his poor soul. The Crone is of no concern to the child, he does not yet know the Maiden, and the Mother is all he sees.

A cold calloused man hidden behind a jovial nature and a grim smile that portrayed the expression “I know pain” decided to peer into the past.

The man decided to go to the Maiden and ask her why his body has become this way. Why did his heart weigh heavy and his soul feel impure? Where did his light dissipate to? She responded with a story in the form of a riddle to the calloused man. And she began to pull on a thread hanging from the man chest as she weaved the story in front of his very eyes…

"A young soul so lost. Lost in the vastness that is oneself. Hidden underneath myriads of layers of flesh, imprisoned in a heart calloused by the mortal pangs of a world so destitute. How did he get this way? How did this frail, innocent soul become so engrossed that it manifested a cage ironclad about him? He wasn’t always this way, no. He was a bright, vigorous youth that smiled in the face of adventure. He knew only the infinite colors of his imagination. Something, somewhere… a seed incepted. A seed of pain, despair, eating like a parasite at his heart. A parasite that sprouted into a root system so deep that the child never even knew it had grown into a full-fledged tree with branches gnarled and bark thick, rough like the hands that were once soft like his diamond heart. A diamond heart that had grown adamant in the same way."

The man began to sob uncontrollably as she continued to pull on the thread emanating from his heart’s center. “Why am I crying?” the man choked between his heaves. “Why is this story so painful to hear? Why did you tell me these words?” angry as the Maiden had not given him what he thought he wanted see.

Then she responded in a soft, but wizened voice, “You have become so consumed by me that all you can see are dreams of what has yet come to pass. You are lost for you have no vision of the moment. You dream dreams of beautiful things, but they can hold no candle to the beauty of the Mother.”

The man in his disdain and confusion spoke fire towards the young Maiden, “You have done nothing but bring me pain and now you speak nothing but riddles. Why is this so? Why will you not give me what I ask for?”

The Maiden smiled and responded coyly, “But I already have.” The Crone watched from her perch on her tree for she is like a raven waiting for the next carrion. A crooked smirk curved about her beak. The man burst into rage as he grabbed the delicate pronounced shoulders of the maiden, “Show me what I seek! Do not play these childish games with me!”

In this moment the Crone released from her perch in a low arch landing on the Maidens shoulder ever so gracefully. They spoke in perfect unison synchronously “See? You cannot let go of me, yet I am already out of your grasp! You fool! Can you not see what is already right in front of your very eyes?” The man tightened his calloused, cold hands digging them deeper into the Maiden's shoulders, but she did not wince in pain for this is what she is accustomed to. They began to speak once more as their voices seamlessly melded into one.

“You are that child.”

The Crone and Maiden became one in a flash of beautiful light and color. The man fell to his knees in disbelief and awe of both what was said and the sight before his very eyes.

The Mother.


About the Creator

Docyele Llenretep

Mystic, Empath, Shaman, Reiki Practitioner, Exorcist, Occultist, Poet, Writer, Healer, and Hermit. I am called many things, by many names, with many titles, but you may call me Docyele. I practice many different paths and observe all I see.

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