Talent


A man lays prostrate before his God. The man is neither young nor old, fat nor thin, attractive nor ugly. His life is passing him by and he is not fullfiling his life's purpose nor does he realize what his purpose may be.

He cries out to God "I have nothing left, I have nothing to give, to be, to aspire. Please give me talent."

God is silent.

"I look back and my best days of youth are gone, I look forward and all I see is infirmity, old age, and decline. I have yet to accomplish a thing and know not what to do next. Please help me."

God is silent.

"I dispare, I pray, I drink, and still talent eludes me. What must I do?"

God remains silent but stirs and a breeze blows upon the man.

"Dear God, if you will not answer, please at least give me a sign."

The man becomes aware that he is not prostrate but sitting at his desk. His face is down on a crisp piece of white paper. In his hand is a fountain pen. Written on the page in his script is "Write, write, write...you damned fool."

He begins to cry and then to write.

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