Ever since I can recall, there was a dream in my heart.
The day will come and I will climb the hill and reach the Land of Promise, the promise of quiet and peace. It is an atmosphere where the sun shines but does not burn, the wolves cry but do not scare. I will assemble the sheep in the meadow by the shrill of my whistle, walk them to the brook and comfort them with the song of my flute. I can visualize the birds chirping in the blue sky, a breeze stroking the tree’s branches like a harp adding harmony and magnificence to my tune. This melody exists only in my dreams for its scales are too delicate and sound too tender to be recorded and played outside of that Land.
After many years obsessing with this thought, I decided to embark on my quest for the Promised Land. The next morning at dawn, my flute in tow and an old map I started my journey with optimism and joy. I past by towns and villages the countryside and major cities, the farther I traveled from my hometown the surroundings seemed foreign and the population more strange. Their language sounded dull and their stories were boring, their music was flat and wine was sour, they did not understand my mission and I did not appreciate their humor. Therefore, I decided to disregard their opinion and progress to my destiny.
The map I drew guided me on the highway through tunnels and across bridges, and eventually expired only leaving a trace of a dirt path leading into the dense forests. Lonely and lost I try to follow this path uncertain of the footprints I am trailing and in whom I am putting my trust. As a blanket of darkness descended on the woods at dusk, I sat down on a tree stump and let my thoughts drift far away- to my homeland. I regret my decision. I should have stayed near my family. Why did I put myself in danger? Will I ever get to the Promised Land? Is the Promised Land accessible?
After tiring moments of meditation, I wiped the sweat off my forehead and attempted to find my way, but fell to the ground. I could not go anymore, for the darkness was blinding. I lay on the ground griping my flute and cried myself to sleep. In my head I hear a voice:
“My son, why have thee to this chaos arrive
Where does your young spirit strive?”
My angel, the Promised Land I put my goal
I will find there tranquility for my soul
“Oh, my dear son the way is so very long
Dangerous and weakening even for the strong
Climb onto my wings I will carry you there
Your instrument leave it’s heavy to bear.”
No. I shall never cut the way or fly any wing.
If my music will be muted and my heart won’t sing
With that, I awoke to a thunderstorm raging in the forest. I picked my flute up and trekked forward, deeper into the night.