Voila....Seer of the Light

'Seer of the Light' by J.B. Pravda

"The question is, is it not, what is reality without the energy we call
'light'?" posited the sickly, almost undernourished painter.

Paying his usual visit to the caf?, he was in company with his visual
experimenters, as he regarded them.

"Georges, you look pale, as if too full of light!" chided his
companions, far less serious and informed concerning optics.

"Even a meal, mon freres, can be unappealing without it" retorted the
truly pallid diviner of photonic supremacy. "Indeed, all is invisible
without it, hence unreal" Seurat concluded.

"But Georges, does not a thing exist irrespective of this 'light'
energy, as you describe it?" another objected.

"Indeed, reality IS light, concentrated, si vous ples, to form all
'things', therefore, the presence of the 'thing' now known as a photon
is required even when the limited eye cannot see
it&;#8230;especially an eye so captive of its absinthe, sir" Seurat
stated resonantly. There was silence, prolonged by varying degrees of
reasoning taking place in several crania. Finally, another, seated at a
nearby table, silent, unknown to the group of regulars, with unkempt
hair, barely whispered: "Gentlemen, the time is coming when your fine
fellow will be supported by science herself, beyond your current
imaginings&;#8230;&;#8230;" He was cut off.

"And you, what have you done, do we know you?" blurted the auditors
most advanced in 'their cups'.

"Oh, I am a stranger in this 'space', from, as it were, another 'time'"
was his cryptic reply and, he was gone.

"To whom are you speaking, eh?" the others demanded of their seemingly
mumbling friends.

"Did you not see him, the man with the dancing eyes, strange accent?"
they protested, uselessly.

Finally, Seurat, coming to their, and his, albeit unwittingly, defense
hushed any petty puzzling with a strange unblinking assertion: "Oh,
Him, yes, I have spoken with Him often, although I have never done so
here, publicly; you see, He affirms the Greek Atomists, some years from
now, declaring you, and I, all things, are but light itself, pure
energy, smashed together by Nature into these forms we 'see' but a
small spectrum of; we are but painters of atoms, my friends, those
atoms illuminated by their fellows now called photons."

A door slowly closely, audibly, broke the silence. It must have been
the spirits, imbibed, Seurat's company concluded. The 20th century, and
its great informer, would vindicate his short prescient life.