A Man Such As I

When I look down upon that jagged face with the jaw blown neatly off, I think of my hometown, though the cause of this informal and sorrowful correlation brings just as much misery as the thought of myself being the one that lay dead before me. The correlation of these two images come with a disgusted sense of déjà vu, one that brings a cry of pity in my heart. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything even close to pity . . . Ah! How long it’s been since I’ve felt much of anything at all!

Where was it . . . yes – Munich. The jagged edge of those slanted orange roofs were, if you were to look at them just down the road, slanted in the same way in which this lovely man’s face is now. Or maybe I’m confused. How am I to know? Imbedded in the pocket of the dead man was a bloodied page which read:

Since I have returned in an orderly fashion, I’ve noticed that those surrounding me, ordering me, are rather new to this life. The men and women who control me are perhaps comparable to a child who is yet to understand the dangers of fire – indeed, children who have not only succumb to the shadows on the wall but have worshiped them as Gods. It is only too easy to do. I also have seen the shadows to be greater than I; but it is not that imperfect being which we come from but the indivisible all which lays its finger upon us as a father to a son.

We draw conclusions from ourselves, divide them by ourselves, and declare truth according to ourselves. The best we have to offer is our connection to the space between thoughts, between glances; that flashing light, which is in itself our existence, though we ignore it as an illusion. We howl in the night because we are yet to understand that we are to be our own mothers and fathers, severing our shortcomings which hinder us. We are to weep under breathless stars so that we may be glad of them one day. And should you die, you are free. We are to learn one life at a time.

And perhaps, though I am yet to know this for sure, we are the amalgamation of souls just as we are an amalgamation of particles; no one star birthed us. You may yet share a portion of Homer’s soul, and that portion of soul may grow beautiful with the waters you shower upon it. It may not become ugly, but rather invisible and neglected just as a child who is neglected shrinks but remains pure and beautiful. You idiot! You’ve ignored your soul.

You’ve a conqueror within your soul, you’ve an artist, you’ve a sculptor, you’ve a priest, you’ve a scientist, you’ve a mother, you’ve a father, you’ve a painter, you’ve a poet, you’ve a king, you’ve a peasant, you’ve a God in your soul.

When you read me you are reminded of yourself. When you hear the songs of old and recite the poets of our fathers, you then can see yourself. I know not of any end, just as I know not of any beginning. I see only the black cat in the distance, cold and afraid. And still there is love; the mutuality of existence! But do not think for a moment that our love for conquering and victory is forgotten.

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To say that a dictator will be a peasant in the next life is to say that all peasants deserve their suffering. How could I possibly argue for or against this? With what grounds? I see only myself and how much of myself is present or lacking in others. When I witness a great man, I see how much I lack. When I witness a weak man, I see how much I have present. Do you understand how little I see you my brother? Do you understand how much I miss you?

I may only find a friend in he who is as lived as I or greater. Laughter of fools is merely a trick on the mind. You serve the enemy! The laughter you hand to me forces me to forget my sufferings! I am not supportive of suffering, but rather they are like bills: if you set them aside and forget them, they grow and become monstrous – damn you who distract me from my fight! Love, too, is like this when received. One may give out love with caution and purpose. Receiving excessive unjust love is the cause of destruction in man; a source of hubris is excessive unjust love of one’s self, far separated from the understanding of one’s value. Do you understand what I say to you?

We longstanding souls seek only the betterment of ourselves! This has been your mission all along, you young ones, but rather you are raped and controlled by the world around you, and are you really to blame? This world, too, is ancient. And with great bitterness and reverence I say that you must be burnt to understand the beauty of fire. Forgive me for leaving you behind. My love for you is what causes me to weep for you. Know that I would take your suffering from you if only to show my strength. Know that I would brandish the snake before my people as to make them not afraid. Know that I would take the lion’s head so as to become greater than he.

See to the fire my phoenix and be glad at being set aflame. And should you be unlucky enough to kill me before my preferred hour, you will meet me again in another life and you will know me as I know you, but fear not of revenge, for still, I do not see you, but rather my own greatness which you are a stepping stone of. I am fire, and I am love; that which never truly dies. Hear me, brother.

Yes, that is right. This never happened, or rather, it is me who I stand over now. I looked to my hand and saw but air. How peculiar! I looked to my left and saw in the rubble those same orange roofs which cleverly brought me such misery. I am here in Munich, or I was. Perhaps it is best this way – what complaint could I bring to myself, or God, if I stand bravely in time, lost here in a moment that did not happen? I am as a tree is as it burns. My soul has been submerged in time for so long that it no longer blisters me. I’ve been mistaken to assume it was my friend, however. Just as the ocean washes over us, time too is unfeeling in its conducive death.

Well, I wonder just how I got here! I’d like to see the man who put me down! Ah, what do I care. He’s probably dead as well, or at least he’ll die soon enough – I see it. The man who killed me was me. My body still points the barrel at myself. What was all that chatter for, then? Why must I have ranted on in such a manner as to present myself as someone larger than myself? It’s true I may yet have been, but what could be said about a man weak enough to take himself out? This is abhorrent to someone such as I . . . so how then? Looking further down, I saw the rotted flesh of my two legs. Ha! Nature would have gotten me, or perhaps science. No matter. What do I care of it now? I may yet to be born a prince, a president, peasant. And still it’d be no matter! I’d be born a rat and still I’d fight. I’d be a bullet myself and still I’d pierce a man such as I!

And what of love? Was it really a misunderstanding? I fear I still do not know. All those years in which I’ve scraped through this muck of humanity and am no closer to understanding love. Maybe I’ve misrepresented love unto myself. Yes, I am filled with love! I love my brother, as my brother is I. I have great respect, a form of love, for those greater. I have great disdain for those weaker than I, for they suffer unjustly, foolishly, idiotically, anything of the sort – yes! Bring me back at once! I am yet to have my fill, you bastards, you won’t have me but oh how you’ll need me! I am to sever the world in two! I am to wring myself over the world and permeate my blood through its soil. I am to tell a legend and build a city from it! I am to know, yes – simply know what is love. And then, then I will be taken from this world, as then I will have seen him. He who is myself.

And so my brother you will follow me into the fire.