tales for dreamers: a crisis of identity

It were moments like these that posed the greatest dilemma. What was he to do? Rise to the occasion? Or fall by the wayside? Was it the beginning? Or was it the end?

He lingered, looking for clues on the roseate horizon. Sunlight singed the clouds and they glowed like dying embers. A cool breeze fanned his part of the world. Unseen hands began to slowly drape the thick mantle of night on a part of the globe he had graced only moments ago.

The events of the past twenty-four hours flitted through the eye of his mind, one image segueing into the next. The morning rush, a full day of work with no respite, the sinking at twilight, then a red-eye to another part of the world before its inhabitants stirred. Each day no different than the other.

Often despair clouded his jaded mind. Surely there must be more to life than this, he wondered.

But then a sunny day lifted his spirits. Those were the days he scaled the highest mountains, perched above the tallest cliffs, and beheld the world beneath him.

On days like these, he patted himself on the back for a job well done and readily accepted there was little more he could do here, that the people here were ready to light their own paths through the darkness of the night, and that it was time for him to spread his message in another part of the world.

Today was a day like that. A day spent usefully, much had been accomplished.
Much more was to be done too but in another time and another place.

So when the moon started to rise from the other end, the sun decided to bow out gracefully. Not all battles need to be fought, he reckoned.