The Seven Days of Wander

by Broken Walls Publishing

hour, when the king emerges to exercise his vision. His feet firmly press the height and all the bricks of the wall rejoice in their purpose. Singing out the creak of their dust "Look, the exulted one! Praise ourselves that we have raised him even higher in the worldly view! Thus is our age granted victory over decay in the purpose of his stride!

  For were we not clay and windblown chafe before the value of his vision raised this monument of worship? Praise the king that dirt is now firm and holy in this noble task!"

  No, no, please sir, I fear there is equality only to the sight, not to the grasp. For all men are great in their desires but not in their reward.

  But if the desires are great why the reward such a meagre bitter for the multitudes of ungrasp? In a word, the answer is raised sure as a kingly sceptre: Ungrasping! An outstretched arm is that not the bridge of lustful eyes in the place of barren fulfil stretched to the clawed imprint of victory; the tremors, an excitement of escape's of futile squirm.

  It is the great who grasp, the great whose sinewy arms have veins bulging in their fierce blood line of resolve.

  The meagre have not this. They the thin arms of unable. They remain broken twigs wavering from the trunk.

  Only in one thing have they a pace of forward. When the twigs form as radiance of worship around the great hub. Then destiny forms a larger wheel to swallow the road of only the greatly travelled. That the spokes give the great hub a larger orbit its true but beggars amongst all men must never lose grip that were the hub shatter, the twigs scatter.

  This manly spirit you spill before the thirsting dust, here is your main err, one eyed guide. Think of man as drops, men as water. Pools of stagnant, rivers of flow. But movement is not spirit but the cascade of futile lay. What the earth beckons, the river must gallop.

  But the spirit is water plus the noble fruit. Great thoughts, great vision ripened on the vine of cultivate or even a wild juice of pulp sown in forgotten hills. Gathered, compressed, left foment to the cask of resolve; the high of high goat's skin.

  Then, beggar, the only spirit of man pours forth quiet in its taste of life, kingly in its savour, that those fortunate enough to sip at its high table are liberated from their cowardice and cowering ways. This is the king's spirit, a few of worship come sip in consecration; to delight in the new wide fragrance unknown in lower tides.

  There is no other spirit, Beggar, for this is natural law. There are kings and there are men, there is no man. Just as there are horses and mules; gazelles and camels; lions and dogs. In all pairs there lies nothing of stature in between.

  There is the plain, there is the mountain. Hills are not budding mountains or greater plains. These are merely the spillings, the leavings, the accidents of true mountains.

  Just as those who shield their eyes from the sun, left their areas to gaze up on a mountain so is the king as the sun. That is to radiant forth, whether a few or many bask or bake in his everlast of gaze.

  That, Beggar, is the heat of high spirit. Like all things aloof, to see is not to tough; to beg upon but never, never to emulate. This is worship, for men are only of dust except when they are raised to look upon their king. Beggar: Forgive my folly, my King but I perceive too much modesty decreases your stature.

  King Hindus gives a bellowing laugh and replies: "In time, the Beauty of the Pinnacle, the Divine Poweress gathers all suitors upon her slipper. And all accusations. Finally modesty has been shattered upon her skirts."

  King Hindus with a look to the thin stalk who preys upon every word spoken with his open, continues "What say you, Scribian, can thy cobwebs of ink ever recall modesty as a king's crimp?"

  The Scribian looked up at the king, his face contoured, convulsed with the hint of a grin, gave it up and simply uttered "No your Esteemness" before disappearing in a deep bow.

  The King with a shrug, replied again to the Beggar. "Thus you have the intellectual barrage which surrounds a king on his daily march. Is there no wonder greater than this? It makes even a beggar's whistle blare through this dim of surrounds. But a return to my most precious bride, you have accused her of modest airs at the feasting of men. Pray tell us why, beggar? Is she too delicate in the plucking of hearts or dashing of brains to the soup plate?"

  This delicacy of verbal tidbit the King followed with a chuckled heart whereupon the Scribian bound again; twice even in the rapid motion of servitude begging notice.

  Beggar: It is a misguided, my King, to see spirit as a commodity of exchange, that one man must have more so others have less. As if men are crammed to tiny caves and must gulp stale air from each other's mouths.

  No spirit is a thing, a winged free thing of wide plains and tumbles round mountains. In this there is no sharing of it for each man takes of himself and himself only. Upon his own cinders and feel of body and thought, of act and touch, he sparks the flame of spirit.

  Can one man go to another man's fire and steal the flames? Cupped in the thief’s hand to scurry bent over against the winds of condemn; to deposit upon his flame like water added to a well? Can thus a crime cause a spirit to sear high?

  No it cannot. Each flame reigns independent in its spot of furnace, the light of one brilliant, the light of a thousand gathered in a volley brilliant as well.

  So what does a hideous crime do if it seeks a greater flame than its brethren but cannot flare its own? Will the thief not turn murderer and douse its neighbours' hearth? In this illusion to give itself the greatest brilliance just as candle shines in darkest night but appears a weak thing by day.

  But this is no greatly done thing. For the sneak's flames are no higher to scorch a path across the hovering pages of history. Ironic that what is done much, is seldom recorded. For always the single flame burning small and insignificant to a history glazed to suns blinking in and out has not a glance pinpoints.

  But the crime’s single spirit is deluded nonetheless. It does not seek a greater brightness but rather craves an external darkness for its background of tiny urge.

  One by one the gather of many fires is drenched by the cold hands of the envious thief. That he is a little

  larger, a little stronger has not stilled his envy, rather it has fuelled his black courage. A little was not enough, was not supreme to this stalk of pinnacle.

  Glee and success give a hyena's throat to his heart as his plan plots devilish and one by one darkness gathers more virgin to his fire. As he weaves his deed of spiritcide, his eyes see and believe the illusion of his greatness gathering distant as he himself moves treacherous amongst his brother's lights.

  Even the brothers are fooled or at least succumb. Cringe from the cold and terror of teethed night and

  come gather to the coward's fire to seek snatches at the warm blankets cornered now in a solitary place.

  He reaps well, this sower of bleak. He has doused his compete, now he gathers their worship to his singular of grand.

  But with what does he douse his neighbour's spirit? For to rack and whip and flag the body does little on the spirit except perhaps a beating, a wind to raise more heat of indignation. Anything laid upon the body whether coal or succulent flesh is only little of a penetrate, it cannot crush, it cannot split inner skins. The body is as if a skin of the spirit, a container. Tremors of agony or ecstasy are felt but in fleet.Threaten or punish is not a guide to the spirit unless the spirit is already fallen to the cringe of blind direction.

  Ah, my king, what flicker has sparked here! That spirit needs of direction.

  But where to, where from? Inner, outer? Is this guide a step of seeking, or plotting, or following?

  Who amongst men has the least direction inner, the most outer? Who amongst men follows as a dog of no will, panting between tasks gestured by still hands, for does not the dog do the task almost before command?

  Who follows born, live, die in here ever after with no step out of stride of a master? The slave! He does not obey for to obey is to willing act to a command. The slave follows, he resigns, in fact, he is long since past t
he post of resign. He was born resigned; his cry, was it not the whimper for a master? Or was it the first and last breath of denial?

  We shall put the slave to the last of men. What is next? The very poor, the destitute of empty hand to gaping mouth. Why a poor above a slave? For a slave maybe fed, clothed better his bodily needs cared as a ploughman would brush his ox but the poor has a sip of will.

  A meagre will, a small direction in spirit. He is caged in his impotency yet there is a will of vision, of follow, he may turn east, west, step in uncommanded being till his nails scrape the eternal wall of shun; of the terrible sweep of a life's fling of curses. But he can curse, he can step, he can turn. To avail or not is of no question in this spirit. We have allowed a little more than a slave, therefore, a little more of a man.

  What next? What next in our dark scale below muddied eyes? What next of physical restraint, of no will to direct, of economic crush, of obey versus follow, of eternal damnation in the walled vision of never ending.

  For these are indeed the things of dunking spirit. Cast but a few drops and the smoke singes of a fire's warming; let the deluge of most lust envelop it and a man is lost to darkness. Where his shouts are walled in iron air.

  Who would be next? What of the criminals imprisoned? What of the palace guards? The economics fills better than a valley's dust. Will has enacted at least to