What is it like, to be the disciple of a real spiritual master?
How is life different from those who don't follow a path?
This book is the continuation of my first one: The Hidden Path.
If you are not yet familiar with the topic, if you are new to t...
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"They don't listen," I complained, panting.
"No, they never do," my friend agreed.
It took a few more steps, until I managed to gather enough breath for my next question.
"But the instruction was clear, wasn't it?"
"Yes," the slim, blonde girl who was running beside me agreed. I noticed that she seemed to have much less trouble talking than me. Which was probably due to the fact that she was a rather petite girl.
I, on the other hand, enjoyed my food just a tad too much.
Having taken a deep breath, I released it with a huff. I was doing my best not to develop a stitch.
"Well, people who have never been on the run, probably don't realize that this is actually not a joke." Struggling to keep up with the runners in front of me, I had to take a short break after each word.
I briefly considered shouting at the figure ahead who was proudly carrying a burning torch to slow down, but I refrained. The distance was too great, my voice too weak and the air supply in my lungs too depleated.
"Yes, they are simply not aware of the additional strength they are receiving," my friend mused. "It is exhilarating and so they forget that they are supposed to run with the rest of the group."
"And not just take off." I grimaced. My lungs had started burning and I didn't know how much longer I would be able to keep up with the pace.
A shrill whistling sound from the back of the group had each one of us turn their heads.
"Slow down!" A strong, male voice shouted. "We should all keep together!"
Yess! I cheered inwardly.
The runner in the front, however, carried on as before. Seemingly oblivious of the fact that the call had been directed at him.
Disappointed that the reprieve that I had envisioned only moments ago had not come to pass, I almost gave up running.
"Slow down!" The male voice from before called again.
With the same result as before. That runner was either deaf, or in his own, blissful running world. My experiences over the years had taught me that it was probably the latter.
Which was good for him, but bad for me.
The asphalt my feet were pounding in a regular rhythm seemed to become warmer by the minute and sweat started to trickle down my face. In spite of the headband I was wearing.
Which was to be expected, since we had chosen a beautiful summer day for our endeavor.
The swallows zoomed in irregular patterns across the blue, cloudless sky above our heads, emitting their high-pitched calls. The meadows and fields the street we were on snaked through, proudly displayed their waist-high crops. The occasional herd of cows we passed watched us with mild interest, as we – a group of sweating and panting humans – passed their territory at a speed unusually slow for cars and too fast for the hikers they were undoubtedly used to.
