"Broken," mumbled the Child and then shouted,
"It's broken!"
"What's broken, Child?" asked The Prophet.
The child, looking at the pictures being flashed below her,
sat down on the ocean in shock.
"The bridge," she answered. "The bridge is broken."
"What wrong with it?" The Prophet asked.
"There is no railing; there're large potholes and miles
of rocks that make it impossible to go over. It's strange, and I can't see
where the bridge begins nor do I see where it ends."
The Prophet chuckled; the ocean shook, and anger overcame
the Child.
"What's so funny, Prophet? Why are you laughing at
me?" The Child screamed.
"What did you expect, Child? With the bridge, I mean."
"That bridge led to where I once was. What if I wanted
to go back?" The Child shouted.
"You can't go back over that bridge, Child."
"Why not?"
"It's not possible."
"Why not? I'd love to go back and be with all my old
friends, and be normal."
"You've forgotten one important thing, Child."
"No, I haven't. You're trying to confuse me."
The Prophet chuckled again at her unwillingness to see the
consequences of the choice she'd made.
"My dear Child, you're not normal anymore." the Prophet said, "That bridge deteriorates every time you metamorphose into becoming what you're
supposed to be."
"You mean I am destroying the bridge by accepting
change?" The Child asked.
"Of course, you are. Your journey lies ahead; the
bridge lies behind you. The more you
evolve into your true being, the more the bridge corrodes into nothing.
"Does that mean I can't go back because the bridge is
no longer there?"
"It means you can't go back, because you are no longer
the same."
Shalom,
Pat Garcia
