“Sir, that’s my foot you’re stepping on,” I said.
“Sorry, I don’t feel a thing,” said the member. “Who are you?”
“Yes, I’m sure you don’t feel a thing in your condition,” I replied. “I’m the Guru.” How can these people be so dumb and still get so rich and powerful?
“You don’t look like no Guru to me. He’s taller than you. I saw him talk from the podium last week in the garden. Everyone thinks he’s a big shot around here.”
No wonder I’m questioning my identity. These idiots don’t even know who I am. What does a genius have to do to get some recognition?
Happy hour Dialectic style was in session once more. Wisdom and free drinks were dispensed in the huge game room at my estate in Palm Beach, California, which had trophies of animal heads that I never shot hanging on the knotty pine walls. I don’t hunt except for donations. It’s against my religion. These sessions started as a once a week event, but soon progressed to nightly bashes. All was right with the world. The Messenger was back on his feet and as usual I had the last word. That’s the beautiful thing about me. I always have the last word. My mother would be proud of me.
My recent nervous breakdown, however, signaled a more sinister long-term change in me, Doctor O’Hara warned. Gone for the most part was the stream of consciousness innocence of my youth. I was becoming a callous overachiever: more charlatan than Guru, more of a greedy, oversexed, drunken human, than a Prophet. I was in danger of forgetting my promise. I spent most of my time talking to my flock: telling them what I thought they should hear, and never questioning whether what I was saying contributed to the general good. I’d convinced myself that I was a Prophet and I had the word.
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