NHe was walking away from it all. Walking away from the world that no longer even pretended to understand him.
He didn’t need them to agree. He wasn’t that vain. But he did need, (we all need), to be around people who at least understood what he said. For years they acted like they did, and it was enough. Years of acting added up, until he realized they were just faking it, just humoring him. Maybe they thought he was a genius and they didn’t want to let on how far behind they were. Maybe they didn’t care at all and were simply rude to everyone.
He didn’t know, or care, anymore. Wolfgang had been told he was special for years by his mother, but what did she know? She was his mother, so she was hardly objective. He was to fulfill all of her waylaid of plans, be all of who she was supposed to be but didn’t, or couldn’t, because of a myriad of reasons, some of which were probably valid.
Some probably weren’t, though. Some were very likely excuses fabricated to cover her own feelings, to blame others for things she chose not to admit were her own responsibility. She taught him well, but in reverse. He learned all of his skills by doing the opposite of her, since it hadn’t worked out for her. She was his negative role model.
His mother wasn’t bad, she just wasn’t great. She was a perfect example of what she was taught to be, overtly and covertly. She was submissive and passive. She bit her tongue. She never spoke up. She grinned and bared it until it ate her up from the inside, the slow ramshackle illness that manifested as high blood pressure and fibromyalgia for years. She rode that pity train for as long as she could, as far as it could go. Until one day she decided it wasn’t enough so she woke up with cancer. You always get what you want, especially if it is bad.
He was walking away from her madness, the madness of the culture he found himself in. It was time to retreat to the mountains, to the tower he’d read about in his studies. It was far enough away that he knew he wouldn’t be bothered unless he wanted to,. There were no roads, so all approach had to be by foot. There was a gate, but it was unguarded by anything he could see. This did not mean it was undefended, or vulnerable to entry from just anyone. A strong psi-wave push emanated from the moss green stones as he approached the gate. A lesser person would have turned aside, deeming the approach unworthy of attention.
The ramshackle tumble-down stones and the rusty dark gate spoke of inattention and lack of care. No treasures could be within. Yet he knew he was to push onward. This unassuming gate was a façade. It was real, of course, not an illusion. But he knew that it shielded what would lie beyond.
(Written mid June 2018)