Wearing the Grey

For as long as he could remember, the man knew he was different. Not a visible defect or an observable point of perfection or beauty. Even his test scores blended in seamlessly with the upper portion of the bell curve. Not in the middle, mind you. He was always just above average but off a mark for honor roll.

The boy he was and the man housing still those childish ideas still could blend into the population. He could excel in any field if he chose to. That’s where the special and different was. The boy and man never needed to. Never had to bother with choice. The path he walked was already lined up. Lined up not in a material or financial way. Neither was it a hereditary or surname position in life that granted such a privilege. And it was definitely not a thing of chance or luck. Through out life that theory had been tested. No, luck and being blessed by the Blarney Stone never entered the equation.

As long as the man did what presented itself and tried his best, life was good. The Golden Rule of do unto others being the biggest lesson he ever learned. Many of those times and lessons administered across the palm with the ruler.

I would like to point out that the ruler used was not golden and being the other never was given the chance to do unto the other. Lesson learned, those who control the gold control the wood. Since the boy nor the man were destined to have control or the gold it was best to tend to the business at hand, never draw attention to yourself. Good or bad, attention was only trouble in the end…

The sage blinked away the cobwebs of his Irish coffee. With a quick read of the words before him he was once again up to speed.

The Man in The Grey Suit was a fitting title for him. More fitting than calling him John Smith, or Joe Bloughe, and even thinking Steve or Martin was just humor gone bad. So The Grey or The Man was a good enough fit.

The background of growing up was new to the sage. Very rarely was information like that provided by the Author. The Author usually leaving off the less important details on first read, leaving those details for the magic and dreams which filled each page, newspaper, magazine, and book.

The sage was fully aware of the fact it was his hand that did the work. The staining of his hands provided plenty of evidence of those marathon journalism events. The thing was he was never fully there when it occurred. By the size of the library and piles of written material that gift of trance was definitely a blessing. If one cared to gather more evidence to prove or disprove who truly was doing the work, the comparison of hand writing and style changed about so much that one would think a legion of writers were at the task.

A Legion was not far off the mark either.

A Night of Long Knives

The dream stalks me into the wakeful world. Glimpses from the corner of the eye confirming what the unconscious mind knows.
They are all here. Shades waiting for their chance to overpower, to overcome me in my own passive inattentiveness.
Quickened steps echo from out of darkness. Fading into the quiet with each hesitant breath the faint movement mimicking the rustling of wind.
But I know and in an instant of white rage the invisible horrors show that they do too.
Blinded by blood and pain that race through mind and body like burning streaks of lightening. I weaken and tire

A wounded elk staggers beneath the burden of the wolf packs extra weight. Muscular limbs and tethered tendons rip free with the jagged sharp bites of death.

With one final attack to the exposed throat their prey topples to the pavement. Liquid life in fleck and splatter now pools a thick crimson about it’s dying host.

The traveller’s day passes into the night; the dreamer slips deeper into sleep.

The sage awoke to the pounding pain of a migraine. Eye sockets feeling ready to shoot out the orbs they protect. The stiffness of age taking second place to the extreme torture of joints enflamed with arthritic swelling.
The thought of an alcohol or a self induced drugged comma crossed his mind in a neverending dialogue of desired relief.
The morning also brought with it a sharp pressure building up in both ears and joining the blistering agony that was currently burning in his throat and chest.

This and the gruesome vision of the Travellers ending was nearly to much.

Being near immortal as in the concept of time often had it’s benefits. Sadly living for infinity also offered up it’s own punishment. One being he still aged. Time waits for no man, it drags him along in a riptide. And still being human the same sickness and diseases could and would often infect him. The only difference between his life cycle and those of other humans was simply their difference in opinion about time.

The seconds trickling by actually didn’t. That’s the misconception about time. One second referenced on it’s fluidity and the next laid out flat like a tape measure. In simple math the blissful people of the world never realizing they had mixed up the units.
Even the simple concept of trying to place time to a line was ludicrous.
Next the world would be demanding equal rights and free speech as seen on a bell curve or slide rule.
No, such a thing was functionally incorrect and impossible.
Try and explain and the doctrine educated book smart population would always shout you down. They had to of course. If not they’d have to admit to being idiots. That is something only the wise and enlightened were ever able to do.

As the Sage finished the first cup of coffee he could feel the long day ahead was to lengthen into another all nighter at the desk.

The Dreamer tossed restless in a emptying abyss of black. Random images and short lines of text drifted in an out of existence.

At times the dreamer felt his boundaries limitless only to suddenly see them explode into a new world and lifetime. A resounding blast of sensation and experiences flung upon the blank canvas of perfect zen. Then in the next instant to be drawn off in a predetermined fashion to a stranger place of a dusky, dank, must filled room. Here time was lined and stacked, shelf on shelf, into infinity and then back again to the start with pi. There nothing was forgotten, every moment documented in the very black that filled the Dreamers slumbering world…

And under its own pull bent back upon itself infinite.