A married man can’t tell the truth. It costs him everything and gains him nothing
What does it profit a man to lose the world and gain his soul?
His friends, his business bequeath him nothing in response, a simple silent withdrawal from those dangerous words – a preference for the commons
“We wish to make things work” they clamor. They do not want things any worse is more the truth; even if it be better to brave the rough seas between here and heaven, an unthinkable gulf lies between those chest beating days and these milder ones
“The system works for me they say,” repeating the morals of their television; “we should this and should that”; the system says the same of you, friend.
Quiet down ye fair debtor. You’ve paid your way. Nothing more from you, save that what you vouch for. Why do you vouch for more?
Schuld the word of the German, the Alemán, the debtor, the tightening of the racks and the sick warrior susceptible to their siren creeks and cracks have ground the thinking man’s skull, the philosopher’s organ into some French pastry, a strudel or pouf perhaps, in all ways light and airy, and falsely rebellious-nothing like that German hard tack his father gnawed – and grinned the wild grin at his countryman in the trench next him.
So here we have settled aside the kettle and stove with the women and children all captive to the glow.
If a man not be a man, shall he be capable of making such creatures? Or to the fates and whines of a world ruled by babes born captive are we bound?
What will they think of us? What will they think of themselves? Software addicts and keyboard queens we’ve made. They are whip smart but understand nothing of the whip. Those that do, the wild ones we secretly love and thereby loathe.
Of course we must cage all beasts. For they are there for the observation, the remembering; worse, the forgetting.
The spirit of our ancestral moores may live only in those we’ve strung up; for we came from the rebels and rabble, did we not?
Never to loose the enlightened one. Enlightened? Yes. I dare it. It is not that the yet-un-recitivized have difficulty adjusting to the outside, it is that he has found a more spiritual place inside the walls. A place of simple, hard survival, where rough men and alliances are drawn. Where his brawn counts for something. Hell, jail us all for a while if indeed “wisdom be a woman.”
It is the man on the outside who’s been repressed, and each day further, by the soft expectations of the world. She demands more, and now, even that he have less.
So, “Back to the temple!” he says, simply. I like my odds with the truthful and those honest in their deception.
We have caged our warriors for lack of a righteous mission.
Loose them. And loose the married man all the more. For god’s sake, no, for man’s, wake our bones! We need a righteous war.