Tightrope

He did not return to his house immediately. After-all, how could he? His elation felt contagious, and his mind was bulging so intensely that he knew it would burst into a chorus of words the moment he was around people. Evening had arrived, so where could he go? Where could he find people? The coffee houses were closing, and the bars were opening their doors. These are the places modern people socialize, and rarely anywhere else. Who could be a more perfect audience, anyways? He asked himself. Who could benefit more from this wisdom? 

Inspiration, determination, and a fervent passion- these are what people would consider the perfect theoretical foundation for a lesson. Yet, why are such things true only by theory and rarely in practice? 

The town had three bar-rooms, and each not only attracted a different type of crowd, but typically a different amount of people. The smallest of the three was ironically the busiest, the median was, as would be expected, the moderately popular, and the largest, which was also the oldest, was relatively empty most nights. He averted his direction and walked dilligently toward The Tightrope, which was a moderately popular bar located near the center of town. Ideal, he thought, a formidible croud without an overwhelming number. 

He felt his heart thumping wildly inside of his chest,a perfectly rhythmic beat to guide and expand his energy. He trotted along like a member of a marching band, one completely absorbed by their music.  Fear, anticipation, and anxiety were overwhelmed by pure undulated excitement. No attention was paid to the sweat bulding upon his palms; his mind was focused on his message, and his body on his destination. 

The sun had just set when The Tightrope's door swung open. Conversations were smooth and moderately toned. People were complacent and moderately sober. The night had just begun, and the joy which accumulates after a days work was reflected by the smiles and jovial attitudes of the workers. This only increased his hope, for how could delight reject delightful news?

Approaching the bar, hesitation began to flee him. His mind descended into equanimity, into comfort, into balance. He positioned himself in the center of the room, and spoke thus, 

"I teach you power. I teach you progression. I teach you truth. I teach you your self!" The words gradually increased in intensity, and by the fourth sentence, the entire bar was quiet and listening. They listened to more than words, for even in their greatness, they are meek, feable, and lonely. They absorbed his emotions. They soaked in his gestures. They observed his meaning. 

"For I come to ask you this, this night, what are you?" His hand raised in the air and snapped down. "You are nothing but wasted potential, but dorment possibility, with nearly all of your ability waiting inside of you to be born. But for what? What is it waiting for? What are you waiting for!" Again, his volume rose, nearing a shout by the last statement. Here, he paused, waiting for the invisible echo of energy to bounce upon the walls and reverberate into the audience. He turned from his original position and began staring into the eyes of the people, each of which was, almost without realizing it, staring at him. 

Here, as if he forced his shout to be reduced to a whisper, his words became dense by their compression. They seemed auspicious and solid like gems, shining from the very excitement which crafted them. 

"You are humans, but you do not have to be. Our species has developed, evolved, far beyond the roots of our ancestory. However, here we sit, allowing our potential to not be used but to be wasted. Wasted!" This final word broke the quietness, and was emphasized due to its contrast. It was like the boom of a canon, or the snap of a whip, almost as if he were attempting to awaken them from a deep slumber.

"You are like an Olympian who has never tried a sport. All of the genes to become superior to their competition, but none of the application. All of the potential to become great, but you remain mediocre. How, you might ask? In your mind, with your body, and through your actions- in each category you have not only followed tradition but became it. You have not only rejected change and growth, but you have embraced its inverse- stagnation." 

At this, he grew very still. 

"You have accepted the role your parents accepted. They have accepted the role their parents accepted. Our generation has become a link on an endless chain. Our minds, the capacity of our minds, has increased dramatically. Our means for doing so have exponentially increased. Our genetic improvement has continued. But a gene is mere potential  ignored. Thus, this improvement is wasted as it remains another dormant possibility which is continually passed from generation to generation, each time eager for an opportunity to thrive."

He raises a hand and points a finger. 

"You are hindering the evolution of your species."

A man, perhaps fifty, began to laugh. He allowed his laughter to grow, turning his humor into mockery.

"Ain't hindren nuthin' tha' don' exist, boy. You's a fool, wastin' our time speakin' 'bou science fikshun whi'll we's gettin' wasted, ai sai's." At this he raised his mug, as if in gesture to his fellow drinking mates. Before the man had a chance to slosh any of the liquid into his mouth, there was a riposte.

"You do not celebrate life, you resent it. Think! I say. Do we celebrate the lives of animals, or do we breed them for slaughter? Do we enjoy our lives or do we seek refuge in drink? Are we trying to live or are we trying to escape? It is time to live, and to celebrate life."