Be a mirror, he said. Not a visionary. It’s hard to lead when nobody believes you. Tough to tell people where they are heading. The pages turn. Leaves fall from trees. Eventually, we’re all stripped naked, standing in front of the reflective glass, showing us what we truly are, the artist told him. Fat, short, too thin, not thin enough, pimples on our face, a birthmark, all of it is seen. And though we deny it, truth looks back at us, leaving only ourselves, good or bad, to contend with.

Miller was a visionary. A prophet,  the young man said. I’ve read Tropic Of Cancer, Tropic Of Capricorn, both are warning signs. Telling us where we are heading. Eventually, freedom will be ripped from our souls, he said. And, that means whether you’re in New York or Paris, artistically, you will be ruined on your own accord or that of a lover’s, a friend, government, the list is endless. Unless we make changes. Until we listen to the visionary, we will be lost.

Keep looking in the mirror, the old man said. Or are you frightened by truth? the kid turned away. I’m asking. Are you frightened by honesty? he looked down at the ground, the mud, trash, candy wrappers, beer cans, rusted chains, used condoms spit out of mouths of whores who years ago never saw this coming. And now it’s too late. They never looked in the mirror. Never at themselves, few of us have.

Who has?

Writers, sculptors, painters, teachers, the wise; the very wise. They’ve had the courage to show us what we are, if only we would look.