The Dreamseller: The Calling Read Free

Why don’t you treat me like what I am: a sick, pitiful mental case?” He raised his voice. “Leave me alone! I have nothing left to live for.”
    Undaunted, the stranger lost his patience and pressed forward.
    “Who says you’re this wilting flower? A man who has lost his love of life? Some poor, underprivileged soul who can’t bear the weight of his past? To me, you’re none of that. To me, you’re just a man too proud to be affected by misery greater than your own, a man who has locked his feelings away deep inside.”
    The man on the ledge felt as if he had been struck in the chest, unable to breathe. Angrily, he growled, “Who are
you
to judge me?”
    The stranger had pegged him perfectly. Like a bolt of lightning, his words had pierced the deepest reaches of his memory.At that moment, the man on the ledge thought about his father, who had crushed his childhood and caused him so much pain—his emotionally distant father, who would never let anyone in. It was extremely difficult for the man to deal with the scars from the past. Rattled by those haunting memories, he said in a softer tone, now with tears in his eyes:
    “Shut up! Don’t say another word. Let me die in peace.”
    Seeing that he had touched a deep wound, the stranger also softened his tone. “I respect your pain and cannot judge it. Your pain is unique, and you are the only one who can truly feel it. It belongs to you and to no one else.”
    These words nearly brought the man to tears. He understood that no one can judge another’s suffering. His father’s pain was unique and therefore could not be felt or judged by anyone other than his father. He had always blamed his father, but for the first time he began to see him through different eyes. At that moment, to his surprise, the stranger said something that could have been taken as praise or criticism.
    “And in my eyes, you’re also something else: courageous. Because you’re willing to smash your body in exchange for a restful sleep, even if it is inside of a tomb. That is, without a doubt, a beautiful illusion . . .” And he paused so the man could fully realize the consequences of his actions.
    Again, the man wondered about this stranger who showed up just in time with words that cut to the quick. A night of eternal sleep in a tomb? The idea suddenly sickened him. Still, insistent on carrying out his plan, he fought back:
    “I don’t see any reason to go on with this worthless life,” he argued, vehemently, furrowing his brow, tormented by the thoughts that ran uninvited into his head. The stranger confronted him poignantly:
    “Worthless life? You ingrate! Your heart, at this very moment, must be trying to burst from your chest to save itselffrom being killed.” He pleaded, in the voice of the man’s own heart: “No! No! Have pity on me! I pumped your blood tirelessly, millions of times. I lived only for you. And now you want to silence me, without even giving me the right to defend myself? I was the most faithful of servants. And what is my reward? A ridiculous death! You want to stop my beating only to end your suffering. How can you be this selfish? If only I could pump courage into your selfish veins.” Challenging the man further, he asked, “Why don’t you pay attention to your chest and hear the desperation of your heart?”
    The man felt his shirt vibrate. He hadn’t noticed that his heart was about to explode. It did in fact seem to be screaming inside his chest. But, just when the man appeared convinced, he mustered one last defense.
    “I’ve already sentenced myself to death. There’s no hope.”
    “You’ve sentenced yourself?” the stranger asked. “Did you know that suicide is the most unjust judgment? Why condemn yourself without defending yourself? Why not give yourself the right to argue with your ghosts, to face your losses? It’s much easier to say life isn’t worth living . . . You’re not being fair to yourself.”
    The stranger knew in masterly