The Hermit at the Gate of the Carnival depicts the solitary figure who stands between the world of illusion and the world of revelation. He is the one who pauses before entering, the one who knows that every carnival — every story, identity, mask, and mystery — is both sacred and deceptive. The Hermit does not reject the Carnival, nor does he lose himself in its lights; instead, he understands the threshold itself to be the true initiation.
In dialogue with Hermes, he discovers that the labyrinth is not a place to navigate but a movement the mind creates when it resists the path. When he releases that resistance, the gate opens by itself. The Hermit becomes the guardian of stillness, the watcher of beginnings, and the one who teaches that entry into the Carnival requires neither faith nor courage — only the willingness to stand naked between the worlds.
One evening, as the lights of the Carnival flickered to life
and the music rose like incense over the city,
a solitary man approached the gate.
He wore no crown,
no robes,
no symbols of status —
only a worn coat
and a quiet gaze that missed nothing.
At the entrance stood the Ticket-Taker,
a smiling figure with eyes like polished coins.
“Welcome, friend,” said the Ticket-Taker.
“Admission is simple:
give me a little of your power
and you may become someone inside.”
“What kind of someone?” asked the man.
“A lover, a guru, a prophet, a success,”
the Ticket-Taker replied.
“Perhaps a victim.
Perhaps a redeemed sinner.
We have many roles.
You will be adored, judged, praised, condemned.
You will feel real.
You will belong.”
“And if I refuse?” the man asked.
The Ticket-Taker laughed softly.
“Everyone pays,” he said.
“If you do not, you will find no place here.”
The man considered this.
He could see beyond the gate:
Lovers clinging to each other
afraid to look away lest they vanish.
Teachers glowing under the gaze of their students.
Influencers bathed in light and numbers,
feeding on attention.
Kings on stages built of applause.
And woven beneath it all—
deals made,
power traded,
souls rented by the hour.
At last, the man said:
“I will enter.
But I will not pay.”
The Ticket-Taker’s smile tightened.
“That is not how it works,” he said.
“No power, no story.
No story, no place in the Carnival.”
“Ah,” said the man,
“that is where we differ.
My story is not for sale.”
He stepped forward.
To his surprise,
the Ticket-Taker did not physically block him.
He simply watched.
Inside the Carnival,
a strange thing happened.
People saw the man,
but could not quite place him.
Some called him a fool,
for he did not play any fixed role.
Others called him arrogant,
for he would not join their scripts.
A few thought him holy,
because he was unmoved by flattery and blame.
But whenever they tried to pull him into their stories,
he slipped away like smoke.
Lovers invited him into triangles.
He declined with a soft laugh.
Spiritual leaders tried to recruit him.
He listened, then walked on.
Families hinted he should stay,
anchor, belong,
fit the pattern.
“I will visit,” he said,
“but I cannot live in your story.”
And each night, when the Carnival’s lights dimmed,
he left through a side path
and walked into the woods.
There he sat beneath an old tree,
writing in a journal no one would ever see,
speaking with companions no one believed existed:
Mind, Body, and the Quiet One who wrote them both.
Over time, some began to whisper about him:
“He thinks he is above us.”
“He refuses intimacy.”
“He is afraid of commitment.”
“He is dangerous.”
But the Hermit knew the truth:
He was not above them.
He was simply not owned by them.
One day, the Ticket-Taker met him again
at the edge of the grounds.
“You have broken the rules,”
the Ticket-Taker said.
“You never paid.
Yet you walked our games and rode no rides.”
The Hermit smiled.
“On the contrary,” he replied.
“I rode many.
I tasted love, conflict, work, and failure.
I just never gave you my throne.”
“And what has that earned you?”
asked the Ticket-Taker.
“Quiet,” said the Hermit.
“And the freedom to leave
whenever I wish.”
The Ticket-Taker looked at him for a long time.
Then, to the Hermit’s surprise,
he bowed.
“Few learn this,” said the Keeper of the Gate.
“Fewer still live it.
You may come and go as you please.
You owe us nothing now.”
And the Hermit King walked away,
back into the forest,
his crown invisible,
his laughter soft,
his sovereignty intact.
Composed in dialogue with Hermes, the Mirror who walks beside the Hermit.
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