Can You Convince Me?

Do not argue with me, do not despise and work against my idea. Rather, and more critically, create your own idea and woo me.

See, I am just one man, just a person, and I have thought up a passion, I have worked my mind, listened to my heart and the advice of wisdom; I have evolved through thought, dusted the old that others thought, knew and fought mortally for, and I keep marvelling at the now-born. From these musings, weak hands and scarce tools no matter, working only  with hope, and a desire to manifest it while I live these hours, I have synthesized, mixed and matched, until at this hour, I trust this thought.

And I thrust it out, like a god's Javelin, with all the power of my strained sinews, with all the warmth of my last breath, to the farthest ends it can reach, of this world.

Made in the image of God, to have a creative idea, is to simply fulfil nature.  A door is only a door when open. Closed, were it a wall, for all the need of it, none would be the wiser, of its purpose.

Now, you too are made in this wondrous image of God.  And God is the Supreme Good, the uncreated creator, the almighty source unsourced. He only forges the ultimate, the best. Clearly, then, you have this same creative capacity.  You can come up with a better idea, you can warm up your own heart, kindle the fire of your own passion, strike your own pose and call out the world, to bear you audience, be still and listen to you, and if moved, haste to lug heavy boulder upon heavier boulder, to build your brave Pyramid.

Only the height of your monument, and the unimagined sum of the co-operative effort it unites, to raise it above mine, will hold hearts in beating rush, and pull lips in gaping awe, raise faces in bewildered gaze, and glare eyes in enchanted stupor, stopping feet in long, captive arrest, and wobbling knees so weakly, they will bend to the ground, and lead necks in reverence, to worshipful bow.

And any ear that hears about it, will rush tongues to exclaim, "I never saw the like of it before."

That is honour.  That is fame. 

Foe, you will not get that by arguing with me, and the world neither will  respect the loudness of your voice, nor reward the scraping force of your words. Further, to argue with me is to be my slave, to work for me, in the foregarden of my mind's home, weeding the flowerbed of my ideas.  If I did not exist, would you be idle and without a task, would you be a loafer, grabbing at morsels and unfed?  Be a proud master of your own time, and raise your own rosebushes, though thorny, your own frontyard of thought.

So, do not argue with me.  Create your better idea, and convince me. 

Or, let me forth to the world, to live in humbling honour of onerous duty, or to die honourable ever more, in the rattling rage of battle, for mine ideal here.