He was one who was gifted,
extraordinary, exceptional; one who would one day ...
And as the outlaw human walks tall
through the endless corridors of the modern city, blessed by God and very much
himself (finally…), he becomes suddenly aware that he will be discovered by the
management killers, by the arm of the law of conformity, by the arm of the law
of mediocrity, and charged with being too wise, too satisfied, too much at
peace; too much himself. And condemned to death.
Yes, he was one of those whom Nietzsche
called 'atavars':
one who stood head and shoulders above the rest, because he wasn’t in any
way like the rest. He embodied the spirit of a former age: he walked tall as a
titan among mortal men.
A lone lighthouse in a storm-tormented sea, he stood firm where time and tide beat always against him.
A lonely ghost, doomed to drag his
ancient chains screaming through the metal corridors of the modern city.
He was one who was gifted,
extraordinary, exceptional; one who would one day either achieve
greatness, or go mad and die alone.
Die alone. The words
sound like a drowned bell. Maybe he will die
alone: unshaven, unapplauded, and unmourned (and who can bear to be
forgotten). Like a faded star, all forlorn in a broken bed-sit. Absently
fingering old photographs. Half-buried in yellow newspapers. Feebly stumbling in
tattered trousers, filthy vest and knitted skull-cap […]
