Prodigal
What could be called a person who, being at the peak of his knowledge, decides to abandon everything.
In the greatest lucidity of his years of life, a stage where he feels he has conquered each of his fears and savors, for the first time, the exquisite freedom to think.
Is it perhaps a nomadic principle? The need to change places to reinvent itself and emerge.
Is he perhaps the vagabond?, a being deprived that has lost his way.
In an attempt to get away from the doctrine and tumors of society, he walks away, losing himself in its secret...
The prodigal son!. Who recognized for leaving home and leaving for a long time. Then he decides to go home and when he is welcomed again by his loved ones, everyone gets an idea of the man misaligned, hungry, with worn out clothes and a false conscience. They take him for a failure and with the option to give him a second chance, they gather around him, stunning him with sermons and disapproving advice on his adventure.
Thus, the morning of the next day. When unexpectedly, for others, who made him asleep, simply, he is not there. They never see him again...
Analogy:
"Many with their eyes fixed on the venerable Sakyamuni, gifted with his broad concept of life and the why of things, forgot Govinda completely. Who with a more conservative and upright idea, managed to live even more years than the "Sublime". At first under the teacher's skirt, but then he continued alone. As much as to tell his own version of when on a long road through the Indian forest and its thickets, he meets him again, and after arranging a brief talk, he saw him continue until he lost himself in the never again. According to legend, that man managed to overcome suffering..."
Although the former disciple of the honorable Buddha, Govinda, abandoned his path to go after a pilgrimage group, this one for his part did not choose to immerse himself in the pleasures of life caused by the uncontrolled desire product of the senses. Which, it is shown that inevitably, leads to lust and excesses. Even though Govinda accepted, deep down, that he had lost his "fate" by immersing himself in indoctrination. Likewise, he could never know what his purpose in life was, that plan for which he was predestined.
The brief review, previously exposed, made subjectively by me, from the novel "Siddhartha" by Germann Hesse. Bring back to me, the retrospective, of when I met a number of key characters. With which, having objectives and hobbies in common, we turn the passing of the days into an art school. A continuous practice of habits and waste of talent that promised to lead us somewhere. Some form of implicit destiny, which made us persevere and delve deeper and deeper into the matter.
We are obtaining various tools for the performance of roles. Some of us associate with science and academic preparation. Also with art, trades, sports, nature. Some type of activity that seeks to increase our skills and make us useful. Usually, the end pursued is to integrate ourselves into society as productive individuals. For this I make the exception that proportionally to the knowledge acquired, likewise, it should be our personal growth and why not, spiritual growth.
To get where I am, I had to live in several cities, study, work, prepare more and more. I had to sacrifice a lot of myself, in addition to time and money. I had all faith in the foundation from which I supported myself, that precept of my youth guided me:
"He promised to lead me somewhere. Some form of implicit destiny, which made me persevere and delve deeper and deeper into the matter..."
So I left my home!, for several years. I was so busy and so immersed in my responsibilities that no one heard from me anymore. Working in the industrial field, away from civilization. Outside of any urban jurisdiction or population where there was even coverage, to at least give some sign of life through a phone call.
It was the basis of my first six years of work experience, building an oilfield services platform.
But, it wasn't just that! I also continued my music and writing studies. Dedicated to extensive art sessions during my free time.
Making classical guitar solfeggio in the early hours of the morning, before sunrise. I practiced my lessons...
I discovered that sheltered in the silence and the tranquility of the environment, while everyone else was still sleeping. Sounds float through the air with such subtlety that they allowed me to tap into the full potential of my guitar. I heard clear, the long bass sound defining a "Round", the plucking of the strings became more precise, thus, the tuning and the development of my musical ear.
Having to live in a mountain in the "Black hill" mountain range, in Monagas state, Venezuela. Much was what I took advantage of the environment.
Between the humidity, the mist, the effervescence of nature, the silence, even the darkness...
Everything represented for me the greatest agglutination of raw material, so much so that even to this day, they continue to serve as an inspirational source. I had the opportunity to read many books and gain experience, develop my passion for letters. I still keep several of my first writings that, dated to that time, I keep as a relic of the beginning of my career as a writer.
Meanwhile life passed and the prodigal son plunged into his adventure. There were many hours of synchrony with the soul and very few reasons to lose faith. More the time to believe in yourself and your true power, than the intention to divert attention to unproductive things. Thus, I made that my religion, my foundation of life. The base that would come to define what it would be in the years to come.
As a reason subject to fate, after so many years, I returned home. At first used to my life as a hermit and my love of art, it became difficult for me, strangely enough, to have to reconnect with the family niche. I couldn't find my center even in the house where I was born. And my feet were restless, my hands were hopelessly restless.
My mind wanting, again, to reach its flight. I didn't even have time to unpack, I couldn't even go many days without my beloved solitude.
"And again the road became my girlfriend. When I woke up, they no longer found me. Simply, the prodigal son without saying anything, left again..."