The thinking man

Hi. Ever heard of the thinking man? He moves through town turning people's heads, making them gibber like chickens, makes them bicker and grind, teeming with assumption. Whispering or shouting or merely mentioning. The hipsters and the prophets all go quiet, and a lady taps the wire saying 'oh it's hi- it is her', nodding discreetly, head turned half way back, eyes still fixed ahead, mouth half open like a corpse, waving her hand to the grey curls behind, 'the vines are live tonight, there be dragons, I say you, there be dragons.'

And it's allright. And it's all bollocks. It's what happens when the thinking man moves through town. It's not the thinking man who is important, it's what happens as he passes by, physically or drifting by as a ghost— what blazes up in people's minds, they promptly disclose their desires, their maliciously woven expectations and intents, all unveiled by their very presence and reaction, they open up like books, their vicious beads, all biased for disaster. They don't like him. He cannot hate. 'What person cannot hate?' And jealousy? 'Shouldn't he be jealous like hellfire by now?' 'See me naked!' 'See me lie!' But he's not in it for forbidden fruit or pleasure— he 'as harnessed the devil himself to pull the ploughshares through the black and crimson fields of Hell, sowing val-fire coals, with legs fit for dancing in the Sun, with eyes fixed ahead through the darkest void, it's depths shine up as clear as day. 'Surely, this time, all is right' he thinks. Strikes the devil's arse, 'Head up, old bull! Head up! You owe!'

Their beams of terror at a distance, made for strike and wound— can only make him stronger. Their persisting, almost racist, bickering— their lips move fast behind sausage fingers, with their self-righteous, ready made smiles full of errant content. They moan silently as he passes. It's all lies, perhaps one true or two, but serving lies and being just the same, and the thinking man is truly truth. He knows it all, and he remembers. What starts off as a sigh, ends up a bellows' blow. A nagging restlessness, 'can't wait, can't wait, it has to wait, I guess it must wait'. Spitting in the forge. Poking white off coals, the blue flame fighting back at the bellow, growing bigger, turns and covers, building up into a shield of fire, gaining strength from every blow. The heat from their destinies pleases him. Patience, calm, the thinking man sighs again, in agreement with his soul, almost content. 'Head up!'

The thinking man remembers an impossible life. He shouldn't be alive. Shouldn't even have been born. But his mind kept whispering behind them and in front of them, or from somewhere distant, yet right there, it called and somewhere still it calls, calling out for his creation, ordering lovers to unite, a date for his conception, commands for the seven stars to gather their sisters, the fates, an eighth for a wonder of the Sun, and the twelve to rise the sound of the voice and let it descend into being. The voice creates itself as silence, becomes the thinking man, chanting 'death is not the end-- death is not the end of anything!' Life goes on unnoticed, or with hints of shame, death reflected upon as but a mistake. 'A life that goes on,' the thinking man thinks, 'is a life of prospect and promise'. A life like his. Not yet understood. But conquering still.

The thinking man would heal them if they asked. He would remove their aching burdens. But they never ask. They never do and never will. They'd rather see him not, that he'd turned down his inheritance. Perfect bite of snake. Whereas the thinking man's concerned, he notice this mutter and sighing, to him it's like the relish on a swollen steak made ready for the oven, the bellow blows. Marinade needs setting, he thinks, as he's gazing over the army of the multitude, they're like undead freeloaders raised from Abel's lupus feasts, their nonchalant decadence— emptieyed, purposely unaffected, still, frozen, their faces are but pale constricted masks, their eyes are hungry empty drains, and the thinking man couldn't care less. To him they're just like everybody else. Yet more uniform. Fixed in routine and instinct, as if held under by a splintered whip, or some barely working Damokles-sword. Himself? The thinking man sees that deeps of pits and abyss can hide priceless treasure, for in the dark he found the light of his dreams. His city up ahead. A time to sow, a time to harvest. A time to grind the corns. 'It must wait, as soon as they align... soon...'