The Seven Days of Wander

by Broken Walls Publishing

philosophers, lawyers, statesmen, merchants, brokers of money, politicians. They become enslaved to this purpose. Their randomness is no longer random but chained to the clinks of repetition. Its as if for every two repetitions, they must then insert a random. Thus, these mere counters of destiny, prevent the whole of this history back to repetition.

  But truly the great men, of which kings stand high, remain utterly random. They are of such vision so swallowing of future steps, they do not look behind of a river's course. No river stalls and turns upon itself to grieve destruction or regret some dry island. Without the burden of history in their minds, they scent nothing previous, nothing of repeat; the taste of the world is unique to them!

  And in this greatness spews forth the erections of infinitely grand. For one great man can carve the work and world of thousands. Ten rabbits piled on each other do not equal a jackal. But they do make it easier for a jackal to find ten rabbits!

  Hence all the buildings and doings of little men and middle men are not stepping stones for their destiny but for a greater, a more kingly loft!

  Over and over, the repetition and the random repetition are staggered back to back, the straw blown upon the steaming dung of urgency; trampled by men amongst men; baked in their tiny hearths of oppression; the blocks to wall man from man, to lay feeble claim upon a dust of possession. Till what is there? A place for a king. A fortress for a ruler. A mountain for a prophet. the sweat of thousands is the river of one.

  In a land far from here there is said to be built a mountainous tomb for one dead king!

  That king did not look to repeat history; nor was he bound to ensure no others had the folly or greatness to build such a tomb. He saw his tomb and it was thus demanded to be built upon the backs of thousands below him.

  There can be no pity that these thousands died or did not die. Their mortality did not cling upon such greatness. But his did! This creation came only from a king's desire of godly structure, in purely random intent.

  Thus the great are great because they follow no history, are not burdened to build more in a deceive of the same but are rather burdened to create 'something'. They are not great that they have the means but rather they succour the means because of their greatness. The need is chariot to the hooves of means; thus greatness rides in full rein above the parting worship.

  So this great king may not kill all of the town on the left. He may sever away, all their arms or let them go or render their eyes in sips of boiling oil. He is not burdened to repeat. Nor has he any retreating glance to know what to repeat or not. And that freedom, solely of his random forward, may allow a deed of ultimate greatness, and in that; grasp immortality.

  Yet even to that the means is not to the never unending as immortality.

  As the cow mulls and the jackal hunts so it thus of the great to simply be great. Just as a man with a crown is not always king but a king uncrowned is kingly none the less.

  So little men shuffle to an empty bank! Does the great king return, is he immortal? They ponder in the tiny circlets of their gaze. For they know only truth if it trumpets under their eyes again and again. Yet that truth is only a half at most. For they know nothing of the kingly, godly, greatly ways of random.

  Our king lives! But say his course is other ways, carving new banks, toppling fresh mountains. Leagues away the king awakens new. Destiny in another promised land. For the great have no urge to lay upon stale beds.

  Yet again they may. Or they may not. No man but the kingly is a diviner

  amongst the birthing of destinies.

  In this a king is more than a god. For even the gods in sun and moon and seasons are burdened in repeat. That the bull has horns, the man four limbs, the tree a rough bark this becomes of endless predict.

  No king would so little imagine this. He dares the single thrust of unnatural not the cautious pattern of tried and true or worn and false. What one fore, one rutted probe cannot yield is not to be challenged again and again.

  That is for us, our task, Ours is the repeat of history. To lay again and again the blocks of cities or tombs or chiselled word. To have ready for the kingly grasp, a sceptre of cemented bones that lays idle till some great hand can grasp its terrible weight and wield it high. To raise the history of that task to some zenith arched above the clouded dust of mortal times march. Tis this trek of minions which gathers history's distance, tis the herald of greats which mark its moments.

  So what is an answer if men ask if a king has come and gone? If they must ask, then he was never there! But that he was never there does not mean he does not be! Where little eyes widen to a sound of growing tremble, to that way turn, for now the great king descends his approach.

  Like any great king your own immortality has no peer in upward worship, rather is known only at the height of your own vision.

  The truth of this is a free thing to beggars in dust but, alas, is the only chain upon a kingly reach. Yours is the yoke of destiny, not mine, King Hindus. Insects carry no fetters; only the greatest of beasts are so burdened. They to are destined to move worlds.

 

  King Hindus: There is sense and senselessness to your pleasant droning, oh oracle of dust. The sense of a lion abound in its pursuit and in that crawling things may not be squashed. The lion cannot turn or sway for ants; what is not seen is no obstacle. Yet why does not the sage of insects plead for their lives? Why do you welcome the lion's paw? And where also is the chain this lion drags, I envision it not.

  Beggar: Gracious King, you give my stale bread much honour in your partaking. The death of an ant, the plea for an ant, the weight of a chain, justice of great and lowly, the purpose of species, the vision of two eyes, all this is answered to one word: duty.

  The first duty of a King is to himself? No. To his vision. As the lion does not think 'Behold I am a lion running' but rather pursues the object of his vision, with no awareness of a lion running. In his vision he is without self as self is consumed in purpose.

  This is the first link of the chain which comes fettered to power. For if the king has no vision, he should have no power. He is a blinded lion raging. History will consume him quickly, though for many in his convulsing path, not quick enough.

  What of the species of lion? For there the chain is no chain. The greatest lion has some need of middle lions. Yet they are not tied to follow; neither can the greatest blind his own vision in an endless task of buffet and carver to keep his pride gathered around him. For is not the king to lead, to step always forward? How can he thus drive the others ahead if they are behind? This second link is called: trust. But it is not trust in those behind. For some have their vision of glory, or treachery and rightly so. For the species demands only greatness not servitude. If the king falters, a stronger must lead. In a running pride, the winded are not shunned or overturned but neither are they carried along. But for the king, the trust must be slung on his greatness. So long as he has his vision of greatness, he can trust to the pride following him.

  In the pursuit, as the distance lessens, as fear sweats more and more from the prey, as the leader gathers his great limbs in enormous leaps of will, the pride is driven by their own need of even a gouge of greatness to follow unfaltered.

  This is now it should be. That large men with no vision are controlled, given some parcel of destiny by the vision of great men. They see no vision but they see the greatness of the visionary man before them.

  Though they are less man to man than the single great man, they are not made less but rather become more

  in equalling his stride.

  For if he were not there, they would not run at all.

  Hence for the pride great men do not gather greatness upon the backs of lesser men but rather lesser men grow greater on the backs of great men.

  The leader must trust only to his vision to maintain the lead. Anything else is looking backwards and self-defeating. To glance upon anything else is to lose scent of the prey.

  The third link is the just
ice of great and lowly.

  You wondered, King Hindus, that there seemed no concern that ants die under moving lions. But there is great

  concern. For should the greatest lion discard its vision and become a hunter of ants this is the greatest horror for ants and visions and lions.

  Where the mad lion envisions the destruction of all ants this is even more a perversion. That his vision is such a lowly cruel thing.

  The ants are then stricken in all things. For destruction of a few ants in a great purpose of vision is not even condemned by the ants themselves. Even their sluggish, toiling skulls have some glimmer of destiny in the flash of tawny brown and wild mane.

  But not even they can swallow death in that their death is the sole victory of vision. For they know this for an abomination. That the species decrees their workings to be the foothills of a mountain, not the mass graven pit of persecution.

  Then and only then, must a lion fear the swarm of the rabid rising. It is not just for the crimes they attack but also as the divine surgeon of a species that all that is grotesquely abnormal must perish. For the wholeness of the species. And what is more hideous than a lion so narrowed in that it believes the terror of ants gives a pride noble vision and purpose?

  Justice comes from the vision. Where a great vision is held, the death of lions or ants or kings, is a risk but remains fair onto