The other guy

1. In any like terms, wherein meaning is subjectively applied, of what worth is my ability to perform?

In an audience of one, applause roars as I roll out of bed and let out a lion-like yawn. "Sensational form" remarks the voice echoing in the halls of my mind. Further cheers and encouragements come as I sit writing reflections, penning ponderings of prose and philosophy, frantically filling folds of loose-leaf. Feeling 20 feet tall, proud of all gifts bestowed upon me, thoroughly thankful for their source, I mirror all praises showered upon me by my audience upward to my maker. I am man, made to praise and rejoice in all that I do. Thanks spouts freely from my lips as I'm forever reminded of Your work in me.

Suddenly, appearing in the distance, I see the fuzzy outline of one just like me; one who stands on two legs, one with two arms, one who looks capable of performing my specialties: the yawn, the stretch, the roll out of bed, even the thinking part! This can't be good. Does this one know what I'm capable of? Soon, with much curiosity do I learn of this one. He writes. He writes well. He writes of his maker, he writes of his feelings, he writes thoughts in such ways I've never considered. Suddenly, the applause comes to a halt and I put down my pen, never to lift it again. I forget my purpose and ignore my gifts. In light of this other, I let myself abandon my purpose.

A voice fills my head, the voice I'd once let cheer me to exciting new heights. Reluctantly, I let it speak and listen as it fills me with hope.

"I gave you talents for your use, for you to apply, to change and encourage change around you. This place is his alone, as yours is only fit for you. I miss your writing; it hurts me to see you discard your talents for want of what he has. The world needs you both, not to compete, but to enrich it. Pick up your pen, become the man you're made to be."

So I did.