A man sits alone atop a mountain. Underneath the stars. Wondering.

How far away are they?

He marvels.

What are they made of?

He asks.

What might they feel like?

He imagines. He envisions. He admires. And slowly, just so, he falls asleep. His eyes close. He is still. And he begins to dream.

In his dream, he sees himself.

The clock strikes nine. He sits in his chair. Tapping and frowning. Sweating and slogging. Grunting wordlessly. Busy, hustling, working. A diligent acolyte in a great faith.

The endless meetings are his prayers. The skyscrapers, his churches. The subways, his caravans.

Tap, tap, tap. Click, click, click.

Every day he sings the hymns. He celebrates his totems. He performs the rites of salvation. Proudly, furiously, perfectly. Tirelessly.

The days pass in his dream. Faster, faster, faster.

The symbols flicker. The screens glow. The numbers pulse.

He makes the offerings, beseeches the gods. Day after day after day.

He works and strives. He wants and hungers. How his hunger aches! And yet, it seems to make him only more tireless.

He is starving. But he cannot eat. He is weary. But he cannot rest. He is wretched. But he cannot stop begging.

He perfects his prayers. He polishes his idols. He redoubles his offerings. Until his very arms feel as if they will break.

There! At last! The prize. No. Prizes. An endless bounty. So many to choose from. The gloss, the shine, the polish. How they gleam!

His faith has been true. His devotion, pure. He devours and he consumes. He conquers and he triumphs. Pleasure floods him.

He meets someone. The perfection of their features take his breath away. He calls it love.

How sweet it tastes! He is alive! What glory!

The days pass in his dream, faster and faster still.

And for the first time, he sees himself. His hair is white. Lines wrinkle his face. His skin sags. He has grown old.

Where did the time go? Where? He wonders. What happened to me? What?

His step slows. His hands begin to shake. His skin spots.

What happened? Where did the—

Faster and faster still.

His bones become brittle. His vision clouds. His muscles tire. His very breath shakes.

And now, he grows afraid. But I — I cannot —

What happened? What was I here to be? What did it all mean? He asks, desperately. For he knows. His questions are many, and so vast. And his seconds are few, and so evanescent.

They seem to disappear before he can even—

He can feel it now. In every blink of the eyes. Weakness, decay, finality. Ending. Blink by blink, beat by beat, question by unanswered question.

Sometimes he remembers. Just barely. In half-seen glimmers.

A man.

Sitting atop a mountain. Looking at the stars.

Dreaming.

Who was that man? What was he looking up for? What did he hope to find? Was he—?

He frown. He blinks. He wonders.

What happened?

There were skyscrapers and offices, prizes and pursuits, triumphs and pleasures. There were rituals and celebrations, hymns and prayers, pleas and commandments. There was a face, a caress, a desperate hunger. And yet, none had answered any of the questions. That still ached with sorrow for answers.

Why not?

He looks up. Again. For the first time in a lifetime. And he sees the stars. One last time.

There were no stars in his dream. There was no sky. There was no fire. And so there was no rebellion, no wonder, no grace, no detonation, no truth. Nothing to set his soul on fire, and burst his heart to the very edges of all that is.

Finally, he understands.

Somewhere, somehow, he fell fast asleep. Before he had truly awoken.

At last, he knows. Just for a perfect moment. Before he is no more.

Each man is just a man. Sitting alone atop a mountain. Looking up at the stars.

Wondering.

And so every man’s obligation is this.

He must awaken before he sleeps.

His soul must be set on fire. His heart must be burst open to the very edges of all that is.

But how?

He must reach towards the stars. Defiantly, fearlessly, recklessly.

He must laugh at heaven. Damn the gods. And their merciless salvation. Scorn the night. Tempt its glittering demons.

And reach through the very heart of the sky. Until, at last, he grasps the stars. Their fire must run through his fingers, if even just for an instant.

If he is to live for even a moment.

Before, at last, he sleeps.

For it is then, and only then. That the soul catches flame, and the heart bursts.

Somewhere, somehow, he fell fast asleep. Before he had truly awoken.

And every man’s obligation is this. He must awaken before he sleeps.

For each man sits alone atop a mountain, underneath the glittering stars.

Wondering.