Last night I slept, without dreams.
Today was a day like any other. There were no voices plaguing my serenity. Today was a day of labour, with no insight into the world beyond my sight, beyond the music of the trees and the birds.
I saw the King today, momentarily. I had a question for him on the construction of his garden but he showed no interest in this project, this obsession which he has devoted so much time and energy of his kingdom to complete. Though I am still embarrassed from my behavior of our last meeting, I now feel a greater emotion, a sense of sadness for the man, a man that I seemingly cannot help. And this night I would trade my serenity for a way to touch the world.
Touch the World
The need that never finds its rest
that lives alone
and slowly bleeds,
Or the cold that never seems to know
its time has passed
now shriveled dry,
A touch can also meet its end
if caring comes too slow
The hand now bleeding
A rare night without dreams, without the sound of disembodied voices, and without the coldness, and the bristle of horror, Sorren makes special note of this fact as if it were unusual. How difficult and how draining such a life would be to live with such anxiety, such uncertainty, such drama. Sorren spends his day in the labor of his craft, as he calls it. As so his time would be filled with the simple and ordinary chores of a servant, from serving coffee and snapping the necks of chickens, to the procurement of fresh vegetables and clean water, and to the supervision of the chores of lesser servants. But even during such basic, and I suspect welcome labor, he still has time to ponder the relationship he has earned with the King, and worry that he may be sad, or melancholy. I like this trait, this idiosyncrasy, but I would never wish this, or accept such enduring devotion to another person. This is an entirely different level of love that has sadly faded away from us without remorse, systematically destroyed and taken from us in these modern times; filial love I suppose it should be called, but strangely to a King, and not a parent. I wish Sorren would talk about his parents, but something tells me that it would be a bitter tale to tell.
The love Sorren has for his King may be unusual or difficult to understand in a world as this, when every man is his own King, and every woman a Queen, and we accept the burden placed upon us by the forces that allow us to lead our own lives in freedom. Ironically, Sorren has even shown a type of personal love, a love for the world of which he laments his inability to affect. I admire this quality most, for today our world has been stricken, infected with the disease of self-love, self-righteous love, narcissistic voyeurism, and the world has grown much colder. Sorren would look for a way to heal our world, but he would only make himself weaker, sicker. and more lonely.
The poetry which he so casually includes in this leaf is majestic and wonderful. Even though he omits the basic rudiments of classic protocols of poetry determining poetic feet and meters, he instead has written something from the gut. This fragment of poetry is powerful and visceral, and I am not surprised to see that even M was profoundly touched. M was obviously touched in a way he has not shown so far in these leaves, and one can see the emotion ripped from this man suddenly. Well done, good servant.