The Seven Days of Wander

by Broken Walls Publishing

neighbours possessions". Yet against the neighbour it has cried "Have no gods before God".

  Tell me then is not the thief liberator of the conquered, unholy possessor? And does not the thief remain holy in the discard of the theft for loftier ideals, as we said a ladder does not equal a wife?

  And does not the thief do onto the neighbour, EVEN ONTO HIS NEIGHBOUR'S DEATH; what he would likewise do onto himself? For would he not willingly give his life in the flames as his neighbour gave his in the struggle? So has not this saviour discarded stagnant life for pursuit of life? That is to say the huddle does not equal the climb but must be raised to it.

  The means cannot succour the ends; nor the end praise all means. They are disjointed, a puzzle greatly at odds amongst man, men, cities, gods, fates, destinies, demons, devils and the simple sparks of erupt. But has not 'intent' a core of innocence, a steel of nobility?

  I do not say our distraught saviour had good intent and killed or killed unknowingly. NO. I say he killed and stole knowingly through the best, the greatest, the purist of intentions.

  "Pray, tell us" implores the limpid toads crowded upon the ropes warped around this giant's untragic stance. "We may excuse your blunder greatly if you tell the open gates of your stride".

  And what will be said? Will he say 'I took as you were unable to give'? As if to say thievery is not of the lift of a thing discard but that two hands must be at the task unwillingly. The one hand unwillingly to release; the other unwillingly to remain empty.

  Ah, I hear the grumbles all ready of food, of shelter, of wives, of precious inheritance, of earn and keep, on, on, on to say the things we need are not to be as left to the browse of passerby but must hoard heavy in our armpits and saddle in the shadows of our wide crotch; there we hold and cower to our tiny collect!

  But, Brothers, if you have a belly empty, to eat is the task. The thing, food, is naught of much glutton set a foot from a chained man; but rather must be in hand. True likewise that the sated, may lie empty handed amongst the spillage, amongst 'things'. Here again there is no 'task' only things unhandled.

  When a man is hungry, he eats; wary is the thief among men with food in their hand. But where the food has the frame of discard, that is of spoils of collect who now has the task of holy rites? or righteous hold? There a thief is no thief among unhandled things for, truly, a man can only possess what is in his hands, that is his present task.

  And I would declare on to you all that a thief is he who would take a man's task but he would take things from another is a saviour likewise a man murders when he denies another's task but bears guiltless as the name of healer when he strikes in its defence.

  Do you not see, then? That the law unto a man is his task while the laws onto man are only of things? The second law is not a lesser evil but becomes far greater in its skirt, its cloak of this crowding from evil. Like a tainted rag thrown over a corpse, then forgotten. Great shall be the trails and tribulations of the Man who months later will uproot what 'descends' have bred within.

  And yes, in their social vision, they will spring upon him, an upwinged clouded dense of anxious teeth all abuzz of justice.

  Can you see it now, you Brothers, or rather hear it tolling silent in the night, the black peril that hums of desolation's condemns at whisper. The Law of Task, of Man, of solely onto ourselves comes ringing as a benediction, as a calling; it is movement; it is the vision, the collection of the eyes, whereas the law of social is the collection of the sole, of the dust ground upon but not journeyed. For the city's laws; for the men's laws are the sweeping steps in a reluctance of blind; that is the infinitely tiny circlets of caution, that gladly do not lend to any encroaching or approaching dangerous task; merely things to be bartered by an incline and decline in the tremble of tinning cups

 

  Lawyer: Agreed then, Beggar, while the tiny eyes deplore and give verdict like wasps stirred from trees, the bear will sieve the honey and judge theft by the sweet taste!

  Beggar: No, better to say the wasps curse the flower for the toil of their lives! That the flower is beauty solely and holy in a display solitaire, grand yet unsecure for its aloof is driven, uprooted by the curse of those who can only distil its nectar to some more denser sweetness.

  Thus the first law, sweet, light, instinctive is weighed down in the grasp of the blind groping hands in lesser meadows.

  Intent will always flourish in its strike of moments, though peril comes slinking in the condemn of those who will not or cannot judge at its height. As if weeds choke the oak for the cause of its own shadow.

  So the thief takes the ladder by intent, the possessor is dead and the judges from neighbourly encroach and whimper and whisper, baring the call of their self-nobility under the leavings and bad scents of civilization. Their judgement dared, even if in the end guilt or guiltless, brings its own condemned.Upon them as well for all are possessors of ladders without a stance of good intent.

  Doctor: A philosophical position of personal stature may be but this seemingly inward decree of law vs social dismay of lawlessness does naught for the old man's dilemma's. Can he be killed or not, begs he? The laws of your social say no, the law of intimate of ourselves has more doubt.

  Beggar: Follow this road then, sir. Say one were to stroll upon a seclude of road. After a tightened, turn of direction, the road has been a washed to a murderous depth for cart or chariot. Fearing one might be killed, the traveller begins to travel back, to request assistance at a civil repair noted a few miles back. Now as the traveller pursues his mercy, a chariot comes into view. 'Surely' the traveller thinks 'this fast pace will result in his death. I must warn him'.

  To this cause, as the chariot propels past, the traveller raises an arm as if to speak to the driver. The chariot races by to a likely death. Now, ponder, has the traveller done all to his intent and his capable attempt?

  Executioner: No so. A great shout of the danger across the brow of the driver would have been better.

  Beggar: And should the driver in a town's outcry of burglary and murder misjudge a saviour for slayer and persevere the more zealous a route past friend into a less agile yet deadlier foe?

  Doctor: Beggar, a pause, for are we not now at the game of juried intent or have decreed over an end sure but the means in doubt. For we agree the traveller's intent is well but condemn his means where the end is not secured. If the chariot stops, the intent is won, the means pure. At what point is the chariot driver more guilty of his own ends than the traveller at fault with his means?

  Beggar: A good point in its lack of point, learned friend, in its becoming pointlessness. Just as the riddle of ladders and fires, when the substance of intent becomes fainter, the hands of faces orbited its pinpoint fold into clarity. That is to say a fellow conspirator is scented, is recognized more in the shadows then in the glare of light. Whether inward ourselves, or the loss of a noble lead or the falter behind in guilted delay or feeble stride, as the height of intent sputters, guilt clings to more neighbourly capes.

  The intent is to save the chariot. Can there be any other shame but the strewn shatter of failure?

  Executioner: Blockades of barricades, man! What would you have the intended fool do; fling himself before frothed hooves? Offer his skull as an appealing drum to stop?

  Beggar: Should he?

  Lawyer: Here intent has lost its purpose; for life negates life and why should the traveller give his life against the stubborn cautious life of another, especially when intent is now ill purposed?

  Beggar: But our traveller flung not his life for one of reined relent but rather impaled his life most willingly upon the standard of his own noble intent. If a man will not die to his own purpose, what purpose is there to his living?

  Think also, Brothers, this traveller is not all fool but has a rudiment of calculation below his squandered scalp.

  Should the driver persist at a wave, death is assured a ready feast but a traveller appearing large in his path, three turns may come about. The driver halt
and none die. The driver leaves the road and surely in this delay, beg a reason why. Only in the last, that the traveller gets an unwelcomed departure from this dusty path called world, is death fed. But fed a single bite only for the driver will yet desist his trip and return all bodies to safer dwells.

  What do we find then that intent is as always not less impure by the weighted toss of chance; that a wiser man can calculate his perils of path though a summit towers unmoved.

  Destiny, like the mountain top, will not topple downward and rob the traveller of his ordeal. For did the mountain top ask to be embraced? Did our hole in the road ask to be uncovered, denied its feed of whirling hooves and startled shouts? Did the driver, for all we know a cruel and venomous hand amongst men, deserving a death far less merciful than a caress of grave such as this, did this driver beg a traveller save his skin unbeknown to him. No.

  Who then? Who then, does sew the fabrics anew; who lays a hand to strum new tapestries across historic notes? Only the traveller's intent has the alloy to iron this moment, claim this sceptre huge, like a sword cast before wind, daring its turn of force, a force like history known more for its sweep than a mercy.

  Doctor: Very well to our traveller's noble intent but it seems we are allowed judge the means only if ends are not meant but pray tell in these odds