As I walked into this strange room -a medieval tavern of some sort- I noticed a beautiful ivory desk in the center of this room dimly lighted by candles. The ivory top was held by four golden statues in the shape of men that in my mind resembled the Hebrew slaves. Each stood three foot high. All of them were lifting their hands in order to hold their share of the heavy ivory top. On the desk was a red book trimmed in gold, a quill pen made from the feather of a swan, and an ink bottle. Then I took a look at the chair. The chair was not as magnificent as the desk. It was a dull brownish color. I could tell that it was weak and worn. I could also tell from feeling the texture that this chair had been sat on so much that it had lost its firmness; its ability to hold someone up. Then I began to take a look at both the desk and the chair. I realized that even though the desk was far more attractive to the eye, I saw no difference. The golden Hebrew slaves lifting that heavy ivory top at the bottom was suffering from the same pain as the raggedy and worn brown chair; trembling and attempting to hold on to what little strength that they had left.
As the sun began to peak above the mountains, I noticed that the light had placed itself directly on the chair. “Please take a seat,” a voice I felt inside of me say. I cannot possibly sit in this chair. It cannot support me. “Sit down,” the voice yelled! So I slowly sat down in this fragile chair and listened as it screamed for dear life, but strangely it screamed for my life. I did not want to place my hands on the ivory desk, because I feared putting more weight on those poor Hebrew slaves. Even though they are not real, I felt a connection to them. “Write,” the voice said. I opened the red book that was trimmed in gold and began to stare at the blank pages. There was no beginning, no ending. I looked at the Hebrew slaves. I looked at the brown chair beneath me, still screaming for my life. I grabbed the quill pen made from a swan’s feather and for a moment marveled at its uniqueness, its ability to write history. I dipped it into the ink bottle, because this quill pen made of a swan’s feather cannot write history on its own.
The sun I could see through the large window continued to pull its head over the mountain. As I began to place the pen onto paper, I watched as a drop of the black ink that was trapped inside the ink bottle and met this quill pen made from a swan’s feather, fall onto the paper. To my surprise, that drop of black ink disappeared before my very eyes. I did not think that it was such a matter of extreme importance so I began to write. I was writing, but the words were not visible to me. I became frustrated (after a few attempts) and continued to dip the quill into the ink bottle, grinding the pen into the paper, but I could not see what was being written. I did not notice that my frustrations with the paper, this pen made from a swan’s feather (pressing down against it), and this black ink was adding more pressure to the Hebrew slaves down below; causing this weak chair to scream for my life even louder.
I was so angry that I had mistakenly cut myself. The sharp tip of the quill pen made from a swan’s feather had slashed my left palm. As I attempted to nurture my wound I watched as the blood began to seep through my clinched fist. I noticed a drop of blood had fallen upon the paper. Then suddenly, words appeared! I skimmed through the pages only to see words written in many languages, but somehow I could understand them. The sun has arisen! The voice said to me, “If you want to write history, then you have to know your true history. I have set a few pages in this book aside just for you. You cannot begin to write until you have read everything before your section begins. I left spaces for others that will write even after you are gone. You have to understand the clues that were left for you by your ancestors. If you allow someone else to write your history for you, they control your present, they control your future. Not knowing who you are and what you are is the same as being dead or not having a soul. Study to shew thyself approve; then write. Share your wisdom with the world. In preparation for greatness, you must be willing to die for it.”
That was the day that I buried my old self. A new and enlightened me was reborn.
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