The zealot hadn’t worried in years—he had believed. He had believed because he had found Truth; or, more precisely, Truth had found him. One night, the weary traveler, unused to seeing the light of day -had been struck blind. Yet, in his blindness, he had seen. For the first time, had truly seen: the road before him -- not straight, but a circle; his feet, deep in ruts of his own making, with no beginning and no end, a road to Nowhere. How many times had he circumnavigated this road? How many times had he passed the same mark, the same tree, the same rock, the same stump – unaware because he had been walking in darkness? The shamed traveler could not have answered. The Truth could have, but it did not, because it cared not. The Truth had come, not for the past, but, for a purpose. A purpose that had brought with it a new direction. So he, a traveler of the endless night, no more, walked a new direction. On a fresh, straight path; weeping, smiling, groping in darkness no longer: hands clasped over his heart; blind eyes aimed only at the sky.
Guided by faith, the unlikely zealot had believed.
The zealot lived as he dreamed -- a person transformed, such that the interaction between reality, urge, and conscience were no longer in conflict. The ego and the id, not opposed, but one. The step, taken; the fist, raised; the song, sung -- in the plane of the real – the physical world; perfectly mirrored the hidden, Movie of the Mind. Fear was born unto selfish instinct, …worry, its more intelligent, cultured, aunt, fed upon precedent, weakness of spirit, and a detailed record of wrongs. Zealotry abolished all.
Action—action, without thought, was animistic. But action—action in perfect harmony with thought-- that was the embodiment of the zealot. The union of reality and the mind -- the mind, both above and below the waterline; the mind of the shallows and the depths; the hidden and the exposed; known and unknown. All was one. There was no id. No ego. There was only the idea--the ideal.