The alley remained, cold and wet, holding the echoes of raw pain and a newly awakened doubt. The city breathed around them, oblivious to the small, profound shift that had just occurred. Ruben stood, his face still pale, wrestling with the impossible weight of Matt's words. Lotero, leaning against the grimy wall, ran a hand through his thinning hair, his usual confidence utterly shattered.
"It's... it's not like he's wrong," Ruben whispered, his voice hoarse. "All those stories... all the times we said it was just one bad person, not the whole system. But he made it sound like... like the system *is* what allows it."
Lotero pushed himself off the wall, pacing a small circle in the confined space. "But what's the alternative, Ruben? Chaos? Anarchy? No rules? No guidance? Humans... humans need something to believe in, something to hold onto."
"Do they?" Ruben retorted, his gaze fixed on a flickering neon sign across the street. "Or do they need something to be told what to do? To be given an excuse for what happens?"
Just then, a figure emerged from the deeper shadows of the alley's mouth. It was an old man, cloaked in a worn, dark coat, his face a roadmap of ancient wrinkles. He moved with a quiet dignity, his eyes, surprisingly bright, taking in the two troubled men. He must have been standing there, unheard, for some time, for a faint, knowing smile touched his lips.
"They need to believe in themselves," the old man's voice was a low, steady rumble, like stones shifting in a deep riverbed. He approached them, not with judgment, but with a profound, almost unsettling calm. "You heard that man's pain. He's right about one thing: the power you give away, the authority you hand over... it can be twisted. It can betray you."
Ruben and Lotero stared at him, startled, caught off guard by his sudden presence and his directness.
The old man stepped closer, his gaze falling upon each of them in turn, steady and unwavering. "You ask where you go if you 'turn it all off'?" he said to Lotero, as if privy to their unspoken thoughts. "You go inward. You find the truth that's always been there, waiting."
He paused, letting his words hang in the damp air. Then, with a gentle, profound emphasis, he delivered his message, his voice resonating with quiet conviction:
"You are the god of your life."
"You are the master of your life."
"You are your own religion."
The alley, still cold and slick with the lingering dampness, seemed to hold its breath, absorbing the quiet resonance of the old man's words. Ruben and Lotero stood transfixed, the initial shock of the stranger's sudden appearance slowly yielding to the profound weight of his pronouncements. A nascent wonder flickered in Ruben's eyes, while Lotero's usual bluster remained deflated, replaced by an unsettling contemplation.
"You speak of us as gods, as masters of our own lives, our own faith," Ruben articulated, his voice a strained whisper, though now imbued with a fragile hope. "But what if it is true? Look at the burgeoning strife across the globe. Two nations now locked in fierce conflict. Many murmur of ancient prophecies fulfilled. Is it not evidence? Are these not the signs foretold?" His gaze, filled with a desperate yearning for clarity, sought an answer from the old man, a justification for the pervasive anxieties that clung to the airwaves.
The old man's ancient eyes, deep as forgotten wells, softened with a profound, almost sorrowful understanding. A weary sigh escaped him, a sound that carried the weight of ages. "Oh, my boy," he began, his voice a low, resonant murmur, "let me pose a different inquiry. Where i tell, was this prophesied figure during the ravages of the Great War, that first global conflagration? Did he manifest when the cannons finally fell silent? And where was he amidst the brutal onslaught of the Second World War, as nations crumbled and millions perished? Did he emerge when the embers cooled and the world lay scarred and broken?"
He shook his head, a deep melancholy etching itself onto his weathered face. "Humanity, alas, has a grim, persistent talent for self-destruction. From the nascent skirmishes between primordial tribes over scarce resources, to the grand empires that, throughout history, have ascended and then disintegrated in torrents of bloodshed. Consider the Crusades, ostensibly waged under divine banners, yet culminating in an unspeakable tally of lives lost, countless innocents, women and children, ensnared in their brutal currents. The annals of time are stained with deliberate genocides, with engineered famines, with cities razed to indistinguishable ash. Myriads of souls extinguished by the sword, by pestilence, by the slow agony of starvation. The relentless Punic Wars, the sweeping conquests of the Mongol hordes, the unending succession of Eastern dynasties vying for dominion—each a monstrous symphony of screams and shattered bodies, leaving behind only dust and the haunting echoes of unimaginable suffering. With every passing century, every successive generation, humanity devises more sophisticated instruments of torment, more efficient mechanisms of slaughter. And with each such innovation, the scale of devastation expands exponentially, the encroaching shadows deepen, and the collective wail of agony resonates with ever-greater intensity. War, my young friends, is not the harbinger of a fated ending, but rather a tragic, perpetually reinvented human creation."
The old man's gaze, steady and unflinching, swept from Ruben to Lotero, understanding etched deep within his ancient eyes. His voice, a resonant whisper, continued to cut through the lingering echoes of conflict and doubt.
"If the faith you profess, the doctrines you inherit, truly prove to be a source of weariness and an overwhelming burden," he intoned softly, "then simply forsake them. Do not lend an ear to the pronouncements of those who would bind you with their words, for their words are not your truth."
He leaned forward slightly, a subtle invitation in his posture, the very air around him seeming to hum with quiet possibility. "Instead," he urged, his voice gaining a gentle insistence, "forge your own truth. Cultivate a belief system that springs from the depths of your own being, one that resonates with the nascent wisdom within you."
"A truth," he concluded, his words a balm against the recent storm, "that genuinely empowers your spirit, that fortifies your inner resolve, and crucially, one that does not overwhelm your existence with unnecessary burdens or fabricated anxieties."
Ruben and Lotero shifted, the weight of their own past anxieties now mingling with the profound concepts the old man had just laid bare. Lotero finally broke the silence, his voice tinged with a long-held weariness.
"It's easy for some to speak of creating your own truth," he murmured, his gaze falling to his worn shoes. "But what of those of us who, from the very beginning, were dealt a different hand? We were born poor, our parents burdened with expectations we could never meet. We disappointed them, unable to secure the 'best jobs,' constantly reminded of our shortcomings. That kind of life... it shapes you. It makes it hard to feel like a master of anything."
Ruben nodded, a silent affirmation of his friend's struggle. "We tried, believe me. But it felt like the world had already decided our place. How can you be a god of your life when so much feels predetermined by circumstance?"
The old man listened patiently, his wise eyes holding no judgment. A gentle nod acknowledged their pain, their lament of lives constrained by perceived limitations.
"Ah, your job and your view of being poor," the old man began, his voice a steadying presence in the damp alley. "Consider this, then: Picture yourself as an employee, bound to the will of a... well, as you might describe him, a rather unpleasant, rich boss. In that singular iteration, yes, you might indeed endure poverty until the very day you expire, and perhaps your children, failing to transcend the circumstances, might find themselves caught in the same endless cycle, while that same boss perpetuates his lineage of opulence and comfort."
He paused, allowing the stark image to settle. "But I tell you, my young friends, all of that, in the grand sweep of existence, will ultimately hold no true consequence. For neither of you is immortal. When both of you shed these transient forms, and embark upon your next journey, perhaps you will both find yourselves born into lives of poverty. And then, in the subsequent turn of the wheel, perhaps you, the former employee, might tend to the land as a farmer, while he, the former rich master, takes the form of the very animal you tend. And then, in the life beyond that, perhaps both of you will share the existence of animals, and so on, through countless permutations. The distinctions that seem so monumental now are but fleeting illusions against the backdrop of eternity."
The old man's gaze remained fixed on the two men, a profound understanding in his eyes as he shifted the focus of his discourse. "And now, let us consider the matter of your parents," he continued, his voice a balm against the chill of the alley. "Those figures who cast shadows of expectation, whose disappointment you carry as an invisible burden."
He paused, a subtle invitation for them to truly internalize his words. "Whether you hold them in affection or resentment, know this: their disappointment, and indeed, your perceived failures in their eyes, will ultimately dissolve into insignificance. For no one, neither parent nor child, is granted immortality in this transient form. In the grand, indifferent march of eternity, no one will eternally recall the disappointed parents, nor the sorrows of their striving sons."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the old man's lips, imbued with a quiet wisdom. "And as for your future descendants," he added, his voice gaining a gentle, yet powerful, resonance, "even should they, through the unpredictable currents of fate, achieve lives of material prosperity, they would not, I assure you, perceive you as a stain or a source of shame upon their lineage. Quite the contrary. They would regard you with profound pride and deep respect. For you, the very progenitors, are the irreducible foundation of their existence. Had you not survived, had you not endured the myriad hardships and adversities of your own journey, had you not persevered through every trial, they would simply not be alive. Your struggles are not a blemish, but the very crucible in which their future was forged."
The alley, once a cold repository of their despair, now seemed to shimmer with a new, fragile light. Ruben and Lotero stood in silence, absorbing the resonant wisdom that had flowed from the old man. His words, stripped of judgment and layered with an ancient, unwavering truth, had landed like a balm on their wounded spirits. The burdens they had carried—the perceived shame of their past, the weight of parental expectations, the gnawing dissatisfaction with their lot—began, subtly, to feel less crushing.
Ruben was the first to stir, a profound, almost reverent awe softening his features. He swallowed hard, his voice, when it came, barely a whisper, yet infused with a burgeoning gratitude. "Thank you, sir," he uttered, his gaze fixed on the old man as if seeing him for the first time, not merely an old man in the shadows, but a beacon. "What you've said... it's as if you've reached into corners of my mind I didn't even know existed. To think that our struggles... that our very existence, despite our perceived failures, is the reason for something grander. It changes everything."
Lotero, usually boisterous but now subdued, ran a trembling hand across his eyes. His typical cynicism seemed to have evaporated, replaced by a profound sense of introspection. "I... I never considered it like that," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "Always felt like we were just... small, insignificant cogs in a machine designed for others. To think that even our disappointments, even our humble beginnings, are threads that weave something essential... that our descendants would feel pride, not shame, just because we endured. It's... it's a terrifying thought, and yet... liberating." He met the old man's gaze, a flicker of true respect in his eyes. "Thank you. For truly, thank you for these words."
The alley, though still damp, felt lighter, imbued with the echoes of newfound possibility. Ruben and Lotero, their faces illuminated by a dawning understanding, stood before the old man, their gratitude a palpable presence in the quiet space.
"Thank you, truly," Ruben reiterated, his voice resonating with sincerity. "For... for everything."
Lotero, his usual cynicism seemingly lifted, offered a respectful nod. "Take care, sir," he added, a genuine warmth in his tone.
The old man's eyes twinkled with a gentle benevolence. He returned their gaze, a serene smile gracing his lips. "Farewell, young men," he replied, his voice a soft benediction. "And may you both truly take care on your journeys."
With a final, knowing glance, the old man turned. His steps, as quiet and deliberate as his arrival, carried him away into the deeper, shadowed recesses of the alley, eventually disappearing from their sight.
Ruben and Lotero watched him go, then turned to each other, a silent acknowledgment of the profound encounter passing between them. With a shared, lingering breath, they too began to walk, heading in a direction distinct from the old man's, stepping out of the alley and into the indifferent hum of the city, now carrying not just the raw pain of a stranger, but the seeds of their own, reimagined truths.