Chapter 21
Episode 21
Top artist known to be famous hear of Da PrEAChEr and read about his predictions and his marvelous way of word smithing. The work of stitching and inflicting had been cryptic and depicting making some want to find him while some wish forbidden riddance. Balance is blind to trust but trusting what is unforgiven is when karma is always on Da PrEAChEr's side. That fact conquers all the fictions and in addition to those who listen. I keep my shit r.e.a.l. with 100 percent of what I meant is from what I vision. Let that acronym yield, slow it down? ALRIGHT, Okay I will. Rhymes Equal Actual Life! MY LIFE? That's what I need to heal. From when I cant stand on my own two feet, a need to kneel or from my knee to heel. I be who I am meant to be, cold taco meat. That's beef that needs to chill.
News of Da PrEAChEr's lyrical prowess, a tapestry woven with prophecies both cryptic and true, had begun to ripple outward like a stone cast into a still pond. His words, a marvel of rhyming artistry, had been stitched into the fabric of time, some seeing them as a guide, others as a forbidden riddle to be erased. The world of art, a realm often adrift in its own currents, had taken notice. A celebrated artist, whose canvases captured the very soul of emotion, heard whispers of the rhyming preacher. They saw in his pronouncements a divine, if unconventional, talent. The prospect of meeting such a singular voice, a weaver of destinies in verse, ignited a fervent curiosity. Some sought an audience, a chance to witness the magic firsthand, while others, fearing the unmaking of their own carefully constructed realities, wished for his swift and silent disappearance.
Balance, a fickle mistress, often blinds the eye to honest trust, but when one leans into what's forbidden, what feels unforgiven, then karma's hand, a cosmic force, will always be on Da PrEAChEr's side. This truth, a steadfast anchor in the shifting sands of fiction, conquers all the fabricated tales. For those who truly listen, who open their minds and hearts, his words resonate with an undeniable authenticity. “I keep my shit r.e.a.l.,” he’d declared, his voice a low rumble that vibrated with conviction, “with 100 percent of what I meant is from what I vision.” He paused, letting the weight of his declaration settle, then offered a knowing smile. “Let that acronym yield, slow it down? ALRIGHT, okay, I will. Rhymes Equal Actual Life!”
The acronym hung in the air, a potent distillation of his philosophy. But then, a shadow crossed his face, a flicker of vulnerability in the otherwise unshakeable facade. “MY LIFE?” he mused, the rhythm of his speech faltering for a beat. “That’s what I need to heal.” He spoke of a time when his own existence felt precarious, when he couldn't stand on his own two feet, a profound need to kneel, to find solace from his knee to heel. The weight of his own journey, the personal paradoxes he’d navigated, were etched into the very cadence of his words. “I be who I am meant to be,” he declared, his voice regaining its strength, though a hint of melancholic acceptance remained, “cold taco meat. That’s beef that needs to chill.” The image, stark and unexpected, painted a picture of a soul grappling with its own rawness, its own imperfections, a need for a cooling, a period of quiet integration before facing the world, and the artist who was now seeking him out, with renewed clarity.