the shepherd's sword

nonsense

there once was a man who lived in a tall, tall tower, and only ever spoke to scream at the birds. he had no name, at least not one that he cared for, and thus referred to himself as simply "garble." but only in his mind, of course.

garble, he thought as he paced across the floor worn smooth, because he lacked orderly continuity. he was completely irrational, in the worst sense. he was disagreeable and impulsive, yet he thought too much of things that held little importance. his hair was matted and messy and nappy, and always hung in his face. however, concealing his features was no crime- his eyes were sunken in, his lips chapped, and his nose was bulbous and bumpy. he held his little sunken eyes too wide open, as if there was something new to see. which, admittedly, he believed there was. how utterly wrong was he.

the man-creature dubbed garble was pitiful, really, but he didn't see himself that way. resplendently burdened with use, he believed he was. his role he considered to be a great one. though bothersome to possess, he acknowledged, its effects ranging from pest-like irritation to bone-splintering agony. still, he had many-a-time settled upon the fact that each has his own cross to bear, and the weight of the wood and the length of the journey depended upon the aptitude of the bearer. and garble thought himself to be of great capability.

oh, the power it takes to hold the pieces of ones mind together when such a wonderful, terrible job is undertaken by a being! oh, the torment! oh, the splendor! blessed and cursed at the same time, often said he about himself.

this man believed himself to be the keeper of near-insanity. genius, he would say to himself, was the more commonly used synonym. to traipse carelessly and yet curiously along the divide between sanity and its alternate is the dangerous, necessary link. to the iridescence of angel wings. to the words needing to be lacerated; broken with a snap; torn violently from the chest cavity of a tree with an apology uttered only afterwards. the link to not the stars, only burning balls of gas too far for human touch, but the air. the weightless, wafting thing of travel and birth.

but alas: perhaps the man in the tower was only deranged. only he and others like him- the hazardous saviors, the fortunate sufferers, the perfect brokenness- would know. i must say, i consider joining them rather often. but that is simply nonsense.