Once he
had “made a name for himself,” and then rather quickly discarded it, for it was
false to him, he was false to himself, and the name that came to be on a small
but real pedestal, the personage that he now fulfilled and had to keep
fulfilling not unlike a balloon full-filled with hot air, had become an
overinflated role that he could keep fulfilling or could just let the air out
and walk away, which is what he did. As much as he enjoyed the power, the image
he now had built, had earned even, he knew it was false and no longer to be
maintained. He understood the meaning of “false images” and conceived that
perhaps all such idols in the eyes of men are false. While he didn’t
necessarily want to be invisible, he realized not been seen or known to be much
closer to the truth of things: to be empty of self is truer than to be full of
self, for self has its own way of claiming and identifying with power, thus
becoming the role it plays, the masque it wears. We all become what we think we
are, often to our great detriment, be it notable or notorious, famous or
infamous. And now, in his old age, though he regretted his invisibility at
times, he also relished it; for he could walk in the forest unseen and unheard,
like a breeze among the trees, or saunter upon the beach in the surf, watching
his footprints vanish behind him at each step he took. That was invigorating to
him. For, in looking back, he could see so clearly now all the mistakes he had
made in his life, all the hurts he had inflicted in his self-absorption. For he
had been so blind to others and their needs, never knowing or caring who they actually
were or how they cared for him. He felt this now, deeply in his heart, in his
soul. And he could not “make it right” to those others. As for the sorrow
within him, he didn’t know if it was due to his sins of omission or if it was a
reflection of the great sorrow of humanity itself in its own lostness.
