This is my echoing podium; it is no more plaqued with honorable mentions than the blank page I lift to carry my muddled words. I speak from it, profess to it, and die according to language. All this, from the temple of the ambo.
And should I be malingering (as I am now, but would not tell you), how would you know? Some, it has been said, would come to the great meeting hall never presuming enough to dress in ties and cummerbunds. At that apex, when words should halt the firing mind, he thinks enough of truth to pull away my fortress. Beneath, the knees are riding racket as they clack together; nothing remembers confidence, if ever it was known. Soft words, once thought the punctuation of diatribes sincere, now face themselves as indigent. They were mistakes, by-products, and never meant to be heard.
It has been said that on that day, when I lose my cherished pulpit, the vision-man will come tumbling down. Imagine: limp confessor on the hilt of the stage, men of many numbers gathered round. What will you make of me? If – that is, if – you have already left for great things that do not lie.
I consider a blessing now, imagined fully, that the un-doer of my eloquence will be in love with me. More so – far ever more – than when the words were shifted around above the oak table that hid me from view. Perhaps I dream (I am a constant dreamer), but they say it will be the only way I love. Preach as I might, how well do I know the heart?
It is he who will forget the compliments, loving enough to read and understand, and then rebut. It is he, that strange one that tacks arguments regardless of his life, tacking them to holy doors. If I am lucky enough to be that door, let all arguments assemble; and let me, head bowed, endure the strike they choose.
This I say, because I have lost my charge of the masses (if I ever I had it). I should have liked to believe (though I did not, truly); I should like today to sever all ties to dreams. Let me say, with words shaped in the delicious air, how it is, and how it may be, and let it all be said without magic.
But now it is a waiting game, a pulsating loss of meaning in the prophecy until he comes. When I may follow, heart and soul, the game is at an end.
Alea iacta est. The die is cast.