ONCE UPON a time, a man woke up and gazed upon a thought hanging in the air above his bed.
And the longer he looked at it, the more it confused him. And when he looked away, he forgot it.
Through the day it disturbed him, a memory he was trying to remember, but could not remember what he was trying to remember. But this he remembered: I am not who I think I am.
So this thought – I am not who I think I am – stayed with him for many hours, each as long as a decade, as he tried to fathom its meaning. Verily, it became his very name. His very aim.
Many hearts. In which one lies the answer? So he broke them open and left them behind, ravaged, the sought unfound.
He is written about in the books of men. His character has been copied and reproduced in stories down the ages – the raging, ravaging beast that consumes hearts and upturns nations. In truth he is a tireless seeker, and always giving. In shrouded truth. Love and peace cloaked in battle and tears. Shredding hearts to pieces with merciless thirst. How many times has he altered history, chasing the mirror? Thus has his troublesome picture been painted before him repeatedly. Thus too does he see himself, hours later.
But all I want is to find the key. Burning Flame, you are not who you THINK you are. This thought nags in him. Remember.
I am a warrior. No.
I am a lover. No.
You are a bridge. Just be.
There! There it is again, the morning-thought, hanging once more in the sky above his mind. Hard to grasp:
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.