The Inner Man
The Inner Man
There are two ways to tell your own story. One is by the outer man. The other, by the inner man.
The inner man, the true man, is encased in armor, provided by the outer man, keeping the inner man safe. The inner man is kept out of sight. Most of the time. He emerges when he’s had a drink. When he’s alone. But deep in his imagination, the inner man is alive, all the time. The inner man hears music, as a soundtrack, so personal, it defines him. Theme music, that’s what he hears. This is not incidental music, of a lighthearted kind. It’s not a pop song, playing as background. It’s definitive music.
A man may live his whole life and only get glimpses of the inner man, buried so deep, he doesn’t know for sure, if he still exists. But there he is, on occasions, which cannot be predicted, making him a ghost, a rapidly moving, mirror image, out of the corner of the eye.
He does this...he thinks, because he has a family to protect. Children to help raise. So the inner man, waits. And waits. And waits, playing that inner, glorious, never ending riff, played with such soul, the landscape changes. And hostilities cease, for a while.
I suspect, every outer man, has an inner man, he guards, even more jealously than a precious child. But always, for the sake of the child. He thinks? Always.
Mark Magula
There are two ways to tell your own story. One is by the outer man. The other, by the inner man.
The inner man, the true man, is encased in armor, provided by the outer man, keeping the inner man safe. The inner man is kept out of sight. Most of the time. He emerges when he’s had a drink. When he’s alone. But deep in his imagination, the inner man is alive, all the time. The inner man hears music, as a soundtrack, so personal, it defines him. Theme music, that’s what he hears. This is not incidental music, of a lighthearted kind. It’s not a pop song, playing as background. It’s definitive music.
A man may live his whole life and only get glimpses of the inner man, buried so deep, he doesn’t know for sure, if he still exists. But there he is, on occasions, which cannot be predicted, making him a ghost, a rapidly moving, mirror image, out of the corner of the eye.
He does this...he thinks, because he has a family to protect. Children to help raise. So the inner man, waits. And waits. And waits, playing that inner, glorious, never ending riff, played with such soul, the landscape changes. And hostilities cease, for a while.
I suspect, every outer man, has an inner man, he guards, even more jealously than a precious child. But always, for the sake of the child. He thinks? Always.
Mark Magula