His stockade was strong, even elegant, but having lost the capacity to yield he had become ensnared by his own conviction. As he paced along its corridors of mind, he assured himself that everything in the building had been studied and accounted for. Nothing was out of place, for the enclosed space contained a logic and symmetry all of its own. Indeed, he considered it a universe unto itself, sturdy and resolved to its own reflection.
Occasionally he would step into a room of memories and inspect its atmosphere, or he would stop before a painting and trace the mark of the artist’s brush as it tried to subdue and objectify the natural world, but always he would return to the security of his own intellect. Yet, this certainty of his mind’s own authority had insulated him from the very Truth he sought.
Even so, the Light offered its presence and the joy of its possibility. It waited for the spark of wonder to flicker and flourish, knowing that a moment would come when the man would pull a curtain aside and look outside of himself; to thereby see that he sees, know that he knows and marvel that he may love.