Memory paints poor pictures

It has often been said, the best teachers leave their students. Often, it has been felt, the leaving is premature.
It was the same with you.

Had you been there, we often recall in sorrow, you would have known. Because the world has distaste for us. Because the world despises us. Because the world is cold and closed. Because you were the opposite of the sum of these: accepting, understanding, the open one who was gracious with knowledge that surpassed us.

But you have gone.

No word. No place to send off questions. No offer for further guidance.
Just the spirit of a feeling of the knowledge you passed down. Just a ghost in our creativity, just a spectre in our challenging, just a spirit in our imagination of you.
Nothing more.

In the years that passed, we were guided by others - others without direction, with closed minds, with hearts of this world. Past the spheres of their influence, the ghosts of their lies and deceit travel far and wide. Past the realm of their knowledge, the spectres of their criticisms stand, hard-faced and malicious. Past the point of reasoning, the voices of their claims echo. Echo. Echo.

Against walls of logic, against swells of wisdom, against all odds. They echo.
And the spirit of the vision we had of you floats by. And the depths of saddness penetrate us. And the hollow sense of being alone reminds us that these ghosts, these spectres are the final word.

Reminds us always that you have gone for good.