The End Of All Sorrow It is a cold wind that’s blowing tonight. It has been howling, chilled and lonely, ever since the beginning of time. I have heard it rasping in the crevices of rocks, saw it whip up the sand and the dust, chasing bands of warrior cloud clusters high above. Watching with the dispassionate eye that knows the eternity of the everlasting moment, I have not desired a change; and yet I sense that change has come, that now it is time for peace to fall, gently, like a petal, unnoticed maybe, undeserved some may think, but nevertheless inevitable. I don’t mind the wind any more. If you suffer something for a long time you get accustomed to it and it ceases to be a grievance. My job is another matter altogether. I admit it is not an object for anybody’s envy, and the consolation that someone has to do it has long since faded, in fact, I doubt it ever really existed. God knows why I chose this one, for chosen I must have; why else would I be here. But I know as much as anyone can know anything that we all have our roles to play and what the outcome is when we do. You may find it strange, though, that even after all this time it still stirs me on occasion seeing these torn souls, watching them struggle, resist, recoil from me, only to find them return, pulled back again by the sheer force of their despair. It moves me, to the core at times, because I can see the weight that they can only feel. It moves me because it is so unnecessary. It moves me because they can’t, they won't see how free they could be. Yes, it moves me; but it doesn’t pain me any longer, not like it did in the beginning. Knowing my task, I feel privileged among the blind, and my compassion carries me Through me, it carries them as well. I, too, was once young and beautiful, was innocent, dancing through life without a care on my shoulders. I took all my blessings for my right, and indeed they were, therefore that was not my error. Where I did go wrong, though, eventually, was when some small misfortune came about, so small that it is barely remembered now, and soon after that, another; events I had not anticipated, but had not the skill either to fight or to accept. I took it the hard way, lost trust like a child that loses his toys without understanding the true nature of toys and their constant presence; I turned sullen and withdrew, placing value in what was, ultimately, valueless. The world, all of a sudden, was no longer mine, no more the shining, promising place of light it used to be. I argued with God and Fate, but nothing would restore the life, the happiness I used to take for granted. When nothing seemed to remedy my situation, I became spiteful. Fleeing contact with those that I had whiled away the nights with, I turned hermit and much before my time the lines upon my face grew harsh and barren. My body aged and withered at an alarming pace, disease and pain became frequent companions until it was well nigh impossible even to leave my bed at the break of day. In those days I had not recognised the powers that were at work and there was no one to show me where I had lost my way. It would not have been an easy thing to achieve, either; not only because we had all lost our way and were stumbling through the maze, but also because I had done my best to make sure that nobody would be able to find me, not for a long time, anyway. I had been living in growing isolation for many weeks and months when a traveller came past my hideaway in the woods one day. Weak and half starved he was, and so I let him in, shared my bread with him, gave him water and a bed of moss to lie on. He told me of his life and the many kinds of people he had seen, said he was on a pilgrimage to the End of the World to find healing for his troubles. He would not stay for long and neither would he tell me any more about that wondrous place he was searching for, or what he expected to find once he arrived. But his words reverberated within me when he left, early the following morning.. End of the World, I mumbled as I watched him disappear into the trees, and I was certain they replied, ‘The End Of All Sorrow’. Once he was gone, my condition worsened rapidly. My pains became almost unbearable. I could hardly move during the day, had to fight my body, forcing myself to gather wood or do my washing in the stream. My nights were spent in sleepless agony; fearsome dreams attacked my mind, filling it more and more with the horrors I had been trying to leave behind. But I knew it was not my body that was bringing on the pain, it was my soul, or rather, my resistance to my soul. I wrestled with the impulse but without the strength to conquer, and so the desire to travel again began to occupy my thoughts; little by little taking over my thinking until all my well-ordered daily chores became a nuisance, even those small pockets of peace draining away through the cracked floor boards. Repetition was all that was left, meaningless rituals performed without the heart. My hands would no longer obey me to hold the broom or wash my clothing and one day, with not much of a surprise, I found myself bundling up what little belongings I had. I felt younger than I had in many years and so confident all of a sudden that I did not lock the door on my departure, leaving it wide open even, knowing well that I would never again need the shelter that the little cabin had provided. My journey was not long; three days and three nights I had been on the path, and I never hesitated, never faltered even for a moment. Drawn by a force that I was vaguely aware of but would have been incapable to describe, I made my way to this my inevitable goal. I recognised it as soon as I saw it, though why I could not say, having never been there before. The plain, dark sandstone of the Well, its mossy coat, made it near invisible in its surroundings, though when I stood beside the rim, the water caught my eyes. Glistening, shimmering, emanating the mysterious scents of the wood, it whispered to my heart. Clear icy fingers reached inside me and took my breath away, my life, made me tremble with a sensation I had not encountered before. Something was breathing its last breath inside me, a creature that had been with me for as long as I lived; a creature as dear to me as a twin brother. Gasping I stood, my head like that of a drowning fisherman resigned to be embraced by his eternal bride, the sea, ready to give up his all for the unknown, unimaginable union with an element he had been taught would be his death. I surrendered, and just as I thought I would breathe no more, a light flared up; I felt it spreading through my mind, and words came flooding in, few, but great, relentless in their power. You have been chosen. It was then I recognised my task and hesitated not. There was no one to tell me what I had to do and I saw well that I had a choice, could have returned back home. But I could not. I had found what I had been looking for, more than a purpose, though how I knew, I could not say. I just knew. Inside me, the stone turned to tears. Not from repentance or dread, nor guilt or shame, but tears of joy and gratitude as I understood. Now the Well is part of me as in some strange way it has always been, from the beginning of all time. I mould and shift myself to whatever it is that is required, a slimy toad demanding to be kissed, or a monster from your dreaded dreams. Anything for your salvation. The choice is yours. Whatever the embodiment of horrors in this life, I will be glad to be for those who come to find me. And though they may be dreary times, to think of such arrays of fearsome creatures, there is a reason, too, for joy, as one by one they see no longer me but understand who they are truly gazing at. Not every one of them will find it straight away, and I know some will have to come for many a time. Some will grapple with their burdens, will choose to take them back to spend another length of time with them, until once more they feel the need to drag their heavy loads along the rocky path, sweating salty tears and wailing to their gods for mercy in their plight until they recognise the gargoyle in the surface of the water and then embrace it, see it turn once more into the beauteous being it has always been, themselves. It is then that my inscription, though slowly eaten up by mosses and the tooth of time that still has power on this side of the Well, will finally complete its cycle and appear finely chiselled out and crystal clear. Love Me Who Dares Yes, some will have to return many a cold night. But that’s all right. I’ll be here waiting in faith and hope until each and every single one has managed to find me. Not one will be left behind.