The Old Man and the Ocean of Love

Old man's dreaming spirit ignores an apocalyptic shadow that drowns in an ocean of love.

The Old Man and the Ocean of Love

A Night of Riddles and Reverie

In a crooked house beneath the murmuring pines, the old man lay curled in his humble bed, silver wisps of hair splayed upon the pillow like the gentle rays of dawn. The night pressed soft and velvet around him, a silent companion to the dreams weaving through his mind.

Far above, the stars blinked awake--curious, ancient witnesses to all earthly things. They gathered close and whispered riddles, their voices like wind chimes stirred by midnight's breath: "What is forever yet never the same? Who dances with shadows yet carries no name?" The old man smiled in his sleep, for he loved such mysteries.

The pale moon, bashful and luminous, peered down and let loose a quiet, silvery laugh. Below, a clever fox crept from the brush, tail flicking, paws nimble--he carried an old fiddle tucked beneath his russet arm. With a flourish, he began to play, notes tumbling like quicksilver in the hush.

A wolf, solitary and lean, padded softly from the edge of the woods, drawn by the strange melody. He sat by the old man's door, lifted his head, and howled--a mournful song that quivered through the night. Inside, the old dog, dreaming his own sweet dreams, thumped his tail in time against the wooden floor, a gentle metronome in the orchestra of creatures and dreams.

Suddenly, thunder of hooves split the quiet--the night parted for a horse black as obsidian, mane tangled with shadows. Upon its back rode a figure cloaked in darkness, eyes burning with a spectral fire, a sword gleaming at one hip, a pistol at the other. This rider brought the cold stink of fear, his presence as sharp as winter's bite.

He reined in before the house, and flames of hatred flickered in his stare. He was a specter wrought from nightmare and old stories, come to collect the debts of dread and despair.

But the old man, safe within his dreaming was not disturbed. He did not believe in monsters conjured by fear or figures built from hate. He lifted himself beyond the fray, soared on wings of memory and wonder, higher and higher, until the night itself was his kingdom. There, above the reach of shadows, he heard the stars sing--a thousand voices in harmony, promising hope.

The devilish rider waited, doctrines of fear tumbling from his tongue like poisoned seeds. But unsupported by belief, they shriveled, faded, disappeared. The wolf's howl turned soft as a lullaby, the fox's fiddle played a tune of peace, and the old dog's tail kept the steady beat of love's endurance.

Morning crept in, gentle as forgiveness. The old man awoke, heart light, spirit unburdened. He remembered the riddle, the music, the rider, and the laughter of the moon. He rose, flung open his door, and let the new day rush in.

He knew, as the sun crowned the horizon, that there was no need for loneliness, no more room for sadness. All souls could offer their dreams, their lives, to the vastness above, and the devil within--starved of attention--would surely drown in an endless, forgiving ocean of love.