An Echo Of Things To Come
© Copyright 2020 by Garry Goodfellow
The chamber of the dawn seemed gigantic, the mountains having lifted up the roof of heaven higher than the man had seen for a long time, the woodlands below the sunrise proving a wonderful lack of mankind and a glorious after-life beyond this world. The Day Star flashing in the East, his face turned toward the distant moon, the high hills cast their gaunt shadows as the wind that blew with a spirit of rest, and the grass was bright with the dew. He heard a bee buzzing, the forces hovered on the edge of action. Mark Swift with his happy thoughts that came dancing to the earth like raindrops through his misty mind and heart, laughing as if he did understand. That vision protected by concentric rings of vigilance to plan strategic action was the first thing he had to understand to live his aging life. Now as he stood clutching his hands over his chest, as if protecting something. Then it dawned on him feeling he still pined for the unseen, and little by little the passion began to reassert itself as he called out. “Pleasure and pain, light and darkness, time is infinite beyond all dimensions. Open the door my love and the world’s beauty like truth never is as wonderful as when dreams turn into realities.”
Not without shivering did the aging healthy man during his waning moon of thoughts know for certain what to do. He felt rather uneasy having fought so much mentally in his sober moments. He was a person in whose character caution and curiosity were oddly much mingled, and conditioned by his past same persistent emotions.
Having a tireless energy and determination in the face of great difficulties. He himself referred to the period spent with his Appaloosa horse for his aid and encouragement his, “tired in only my head years.” Knowledge did not need to be forced into his system, though not all the misery memories had gone out of his crinkled features, and there was still a youthful life-saving solution running into the new-born emotions veins, from his soul to the brain. A foretaste of things to come. Defending himself from his own enemies, being two souls in one body. Farewell to the place he`d lived and all of life’s conventions, waving away sickness. Now feeling a burning tingling sensation in his legs and arms; the pain of it blossomed into power, strength forced into his system. Shuddering convulsed with an unknowable future. This change in him not all because of the power of his desire to live the life of courage again.
“There are easier ways of committing suicide,” a seasoned traveller had advised. This man’s protective instincts were so automatic that it was easy for him to take them for granted. His awakened dreams were from times before as if now he were the only living soul on mother earth. He thought of having the power to raise up angels or devils and of riding a horse amongst the clouds, and there being the worst violent storm formation all around him. Making an outer ring of blackness and being that a horse cannot think of two things at the same time to escape in a blind panic in a single direction. Hence this aging horse-man held the reins of thought and hope in confidence. Giving the horse directions of escaping the whirling rising action of any life cyclone without the demanding wind storms of man’s fearful demanding impulses. “I have no delicacy of my taste for human beings and their restrained mannerisms. So many of them were pesticides and should have been exterminated before being found guilty of pain, sickness and the messengers of death to Nature and Mankind. My first impulse was to run away and hide from others.”
The vast dome of heaven became the roof of his house. Swift feeling a warmer breeze blowing straight down his neck and a faint woodland perfume of dampness, mysteriously the forces of the world seemed in suspense. At the same time an extraordinary coldness flowed from the moon. Which being dispersed through the elements he mentally awoke in a state of terrible anguish. Feeling so strong that he thought he was going to faint. Not truly understanding the reason why he felt that same youth - full feeling again, the sense of overwhelming strength.
Though this time some consolation or other suddenly like a warm rain-drop on his heart. He walked slowly to prepare himself quickly encompassed in a dense fog towards a stream which ran like a desperate runaway. The happy sad look fading from Swifts eyes as suddenly his pulse quickened, his veins blossomed as a taint of the blood inherited from heaven knows what past old world ancestry which had made him what he was that day. The man’s kingdom extended from the morning star to the setting sun.
Before sunrise the place he had slept along with his old thoughts like riding the ways of the dark sky were far beyond him. Certainly his philosophy seemed to meet his needs and that is the function of philosophy. Having evidently mounted his faithful horse, not unusual and ridden away in his rhythm of life. Leaving behind the dark haze of those watchers in the ruins of old life, as ghostly Moonbeams waiting for his return.
The thoughts of a new life winged him away in an entirely different light, singing in a happy voice although feeling as if a herd of ghosts were pursuing him. Shaking his head gravely with hearing the same mind-made self-voices he had heard complaining with the other ghostly soul enemy struggling for survival.
Relaxing now on his horses back under the influence of a warm sun smile and of feeling alive again, with his eyes still sighted on the great horizontal crest of mountains sparkling with a fresh frost. Having heard in a moonbeam dream. “Give us man on whom we can thoroughly depend. Who will ride firm when others fall? A loving heartfelt faithful soul, a true honest and fearless drifter. With strength to meet sorrow. Whose heart may break again, yet broken will live on more awakened.” Having lost his partner to a sickness, on this account he felt now witnessing a spectacle with which his heart and mind was so entire, to wander without regarding the direction or the distance.
The mountains loomed over the valley like a physical presence, a source and mirror of nervous influences, emotions, subtle and unlabelled aspirations. Every sleep he dreamt this man loved the mountains, the emanations of mountains and a clear sky imprinted some analogue of their nature on the evolution and shape of his soul. So had passed another night of his mental freedom in this nature land. Wonderful, an unspeakable awakening and come into communion with Nature thinking. “Like sitting in the peaceful petals of a poisonous flower. It’s beautiful, but it kills you.”
Having even broken his body a few times in the past, though he never broke his confident mind and soul. He was prepared this time though, and with thinking it might save him trouble and foolishness to staying free of people for a while, he wanted colloquialism no communication in this external world as he now considered it, “talk but say nothing.” The lover and the beloved, he always feeling he were two souls of freedom. One certain of being conscious and positive of being alive. The other soul feeling sometimes how horrible and strange it was to be the adversary. Pressing his old leather hat on his brow in a sense of powerful adventure ahead, not as yet fully awake to the stern realities he may win by thrusting himself back into like a primitive state for a time.
Awakening slowly with extreme reluctance and ineffectual resistance trying to retain his dreams, to wrap them all in a bandana around his cold and uncertain mind. There in that old leather hat of ideas and disillusions he had known and felt the silence of sleep, and the sensations of his unconscious act of lovemaking. Smiling occasionally at his own romantic and improbable conjectures as his mental memories became a misery to remember. One fact recalls another, but at the same time excludes all others. Unfolding the web of his life, remembering circumstances, feelings, names, that he hadn’t thought of for years.
Giving a slight hysterical laugh, shaking his head, pointing at his horse then calling out not loud but clear and penetrating. “And you too my boy. Hells bells together we are lost to ourselves in this damned dangerous now really, sick world.”
a younger man of throbbing hope built beneath the Gothic eaves of
humanity into a healthy mechanical world he couldn’t enjoy
fully. It was too busy a world for a man who preferred nature life.
His spirit always drove him into wilderness which his soul called
beautiful, he had never even lived in a town. Now growing quickly
older more varied in both body and mind, his bright eyes, his
grizzled hair, and the gloom and shadows behind the trees, his
relaxed seemingly hanging on memories now calling out a little
impatiently. “Lord of nature, keep my memory green to linger on
inside of me please. Old age and death has so many doors to let life
out, now a major problem to have no selection to influence the mind.”
The man prayed aloud to the sky and to the earth hoping the noise
awoke the sleeper, as it certainly must have done, upon then hearing.
“If you wish to reach the highest begin at the lowest.” Now the haunted
man turned suddenly staring with searching eyes
across some wild flowering fields, which did reawaken a tissue tear
of sorrow but covering his face like one who was frightened at
himself now heard in a breeze of silent relief.
“The gift that I have given you shall give again, go where you will. Fresh air, sunshine and exercise. You are no dead leaf in the wind of the past with never a beginning. You are the future going on not forever. If you wish and dream well, study the life in the present, now you will write of it. Create within to think and to see as you please, and write as you think. Real improvement is after all of slow growth only.”
He stood tall, and with a slight halting step and an expression of pain, then with his five uplifted fingers, with a gesture, as if brushing away all difficulties, smiling and saying. “A penny for my thoughts, a little love, and my sense of belonging are in danger here.” Slapping himself on the chin and cheeks after he saw an empty Whiskey bottle and a dead rat beside a drain. It suggested to him for the benefit of his health, to move onwards, that there are some things the Mother earth cannot swallow.
With renewed confidence and security after thinking that money has only a minor relation to happiness, tightening the knot of his turquoise bandana. Feeling sometimes tearing the bond of the Eternal Unity into pieces and scattering it to the four winds. Feeling it was the will of destiny and not the rules of any normal. “Bless my healthy soul Administrator.”
In this way Mark Swift began to accept the various not mysterious at all blessings who called into his life the things that always had characterised his acts of his belief, and with perfectly logical motives of preternatural simplicity of faith. Prevention is he thought. “Better than a cure and I would love to live in a world absolutely free of risk, that prevention and a cure would be equally absolutely unnecessary.” As he and his horse stood there, the two alone in the growing dawn more than once their glances met and a curious relation of sympathy and understanding established itself between them, as it always had before.
Now and then from the other end of the valley he could hear an echo of human life, conspicuous by its absence. “Even when we speak without any sort of emotions, some kind of feeling will accompany our words. And this whatever the words has its proper external expression.” Swifts thoughts were that. “The mouthpiece of the age we live in, bloody people can’t trust any of them, either being alive or dead.”
In the afternoon they passed through ruins of an old stone farm house. The area he could feel the earth trodden track by endless generations of passing feet, but there was no sign of moving life. Broken slates lying on the ground among the rocks that carried marks where man had chiselled for shaping them. Sitting on a stone wall wishing a spell could be put over him to take him back in time to when children would have been playing. An ancient home for someone proud to live there amongst the rolling hills.
“Desire is a sacred thing and should not be violated.” Those had been the words he had heard spattered at him slowly in the winds from all directions. Into one ear and out of the other. Swift groaned and gasped for breath, it was as if he were inhaling at every breath some deadly aged fume which seemed to penetrate to every nerve and bone in his body. Even swallowing seemed like a sore throat suddenly to him sometimes, this was a feeling that had haunted him occasionally on his recent journey. “It’s all on account of this sleeping habit I’ve got into, and no brandy to drink. It’s not this damned incurable liquidation bug from Chinked Chink Ville or wherever the frigging political news tells you it originated.”
He told himself this trying to bring his stiff knee up to his good one after trying to pull his boots off to put his feet into a spring of nice cold water. Bending lower and using both hands, one above and one below he pulled his left boot off finally. The heel of that boot could be twisted to remove it carefully, having done this many times in the past. To hide his money and a little sensual pleasure of, Evermore tobacco for his pipe to unlock his real self.
Aiming at the bare relief of mental pain. Hardly enough time really because of his desperate mental will to be on his way with the spirit of hope. So much to explain to himself of what to expect and what precautions would enable him to live into silence broken only by the whip of branches against his ears. There were periods when he heard with wander. “The facial expression of a man, whatever be the force or extent of his mind, whatever be the importance of what he is searching, is always only an expression in the story of his life.”
The determined man now being with the mind of a Plato and being a sort of Solomon of Wisdom. For all the uncertainty of his situation, for all the whistling of the wind again of being suspended between heaven and earth. Moreover being in the ghostly hands of the white-robed Doctor Druid whose remark that he never shall do anything consciously for the last time. Due to his advanced age. “Things which you have long been in the habit of doing, without sadness of heart. You must stay away from others who even breathe.”
A foretaste of things to come been forced into a kind of primitive mental state for a time. The days and nights laying on a single bed he had watched a monitor screen of the life in the world as he would finally be the dweller of. “Life’s grand stairway soon. The arrows of mankind will assail you like a flight of vultures flying straight at you, jabbing at you, if you live your normal routine.” Bad news, people dying by thousands out there. As that was the subject his masked visitors came to speak about. Drifting to sleep his thoughts were of his horse and of a woman. His thinking of where and with whom he had been with before was now merely a memory, the people merely earth and dust.
“The walls that shut this life in,” words he wrote, “also shut out the mess we leave behind.” Although he certainly suffered from nervous ailments, everyone does, it’s a part of the normal human lack of equipment for life. Some are easily curable.
Swifts automatic secretion of the hormone adrenalin, which, when released into the bloodstream, speeds the heart, increases the blood sugar and generally puts the animal in him in a most favourable condition for either fight or flight, he never before ran away from anything. The more heart the more energy and the more sorrow. He often times imagined he was living in an old familiar past where there were peaceful places to stay overnight. Nevertheless so far wearily onwards. God having designed modern man for a sociable creature, furnished him with overpopulated places. Feeling even when awoken he was gazing through the windows of nothing ness to see if he were really there.
The shape of the woods and trees as fashioned by the wind, the ancient dangers of the trails and roads and the churches, villages and towns. Awakening in a certain mood as the stars twinkled out in the serene sky. Is it not in moments like this, he thought, one tastes most fully the savour of life? Yet there are many varieties of life’s society. The ambitious, the lovers, the liars, the observers and the dangerous fools who escape any judgement at all. “That’s all gone in the world now” he told an old tree, “no matter where the hell you are, there’s no cheerful woman to keep a man healthy.”
The voices of the streams had not changed, distant noises certainly had though, many no longer lingered in the air waves. He hadn’t gone far in sleep walking a coldness seized upon his movements again, stretching out his arms expanding his chest, he fully awoke and walked erect taking deep breaths to fill his lungs calling out. “Look I am strong and alive. I floated to the moon in the moonbeams beyond, with nothing to wait for but life and I’m not frightened to death now. I will go to hell alone, but not through the doors that shut me in from the free world outside.” Where was there a God, those never were this man’s thoughts. At last the spell was broken and he now feeling fit and ready to have one more life, with nothing to wait for now but death.
His movements were smooth and unhurried. He was obliged to build a small fire concealed from civilized places and sleep outdoors, not concerned about anyone trying to worry him, he hadn’t seen a soul. Turning and looking at the darkening clouds above him wandering if he would one day find a girl to love him, a penniless but healthy old man. You can’t blame an old fellow for looking at a pretty girl. Swearing to himself, spitting a few times onto his hands feeling more satisfied kneeling down feeling the warm fire. Wandering what is it in this misgoverned world that people ever wanted. Then after a pause he asked cautiously by way of forcing an answer with a mighty impulse in an awe-stricken fancy he said with ease. “Why should I swear anymore in concern for a perfect world, I`ll not be around when they have one, if they ever get it.” A bluebottle fly landed on his lips maybe hunting a place to lay its eggs or maybe chilled and just wanted to settle a while in the foretaste of things to come.It is never normal when a person finds himself unable to do a thing which it customarily can do. Mark Swift the next morning as he gazed into his horses eyes he became more and more drowsy, so much that his eyelids became heavier and heavier with sleep, yet he had recently just awoken. In a moment his eyes closed, so tightly the more he tried to open them the less he could succeed. Although he hadn’t spoken a word and he really did feel awake, he couldn’t open his eyes. Becoming angrier he lay down again, his head back down against the bales of straw, relaxing himself by inhaling deeply and counting to thirty before exhaling. He had hypnotised himself, he had got into a state where the law of reversed effort was at work, and he was in a dissociated state.
Having heard the eerie howl of the owl ululating on the wind, followed by a period of silence a time lapse for nature. All is forgiven and a challenging the elements in perhaps a nervous ecstasy. Different periods of his life returned upon him, a sort of twitching apparently about the region of the stomach, which was now compelling him to throw out his feet and to flutter them violently only whenever laying down to sleep. Arising to go get a cup of black coffee from a campfire until an emerging sunrise. A trickle of water upon his face from a slate roof, it helped awaken him and the foreboding possibilities weighed upon his soul. What if for some unknown reason I’m just dreaming all this shit.
The cold water bouncing on top of his head and down the back of his neck had certainly assaulted against some outgoing uncertain thoughts. As he kept visualising himself at places and the people he could clearly remember. Swift looked round at some cats wandering what was it that primed their taste for a mouse enough to go catch another one. Wandering dreamily through his own thoughts. “Flies buzzing around are like a death spirit tapping away my time.”
As soon as it was morning he began to think of his horse. Knowing that all animals’ reason, and that all men have instinct, not merely the opposite as you are told. Why the feelings of life should be calculated on merely a word having only a single unshared meaning for the sake of effect, had an effect itself. Having relaxed now only from mental exhaustion, and a hideous sensation began to haunt him. His thoughts were of misery and being swallowed up by this changed new life, as being infested consciously or unconsciously to do for others was no longer his infection, rather than to live doing, “only what I normally do.”
Now was merely having to do everything to care for only himself, having no other soul to consider, yet fearing to go into where any people remain. Those normal every day considerations in one form or another having been abandoned for mankind in the entire world. An awakening, he later wrote of it referring it to as being his. “Dog- sleep so that I could hear myself moaning being awakened by only my own voice. Life is so different it’s not as it was.” However, a Foretaste of Things to Come.
The dim light of a leaden morning broke through the barn doors and a warm wind blew straw and hay like uprooted thoughts where the man lay motionless between the bales. For a while it blew cobwebs aside suddenly upon his face. When he awoke the swallows were still nesting above full of sound and motion. Nature heaven for us this morning, saying give me something to eat and be gone with you.
It was perhaps the suggestive feelings, a sense of loneliness came over him with this emotion came a sense of confusion that he had never felt before. It was raining. Not in the usual direct, normal, perpendicular fashion of that English country of that mountain region, but only suggestively, and in a vague uncertain kind of way, as if it might at any time prove to be a mist or fog. The tree branches clambered unrestrainedly over the loose tiled roof; the crows flew wildly about, loudly cawing away as a pair of magpies having settled with no concern beneath a barn roof, like of indifference. Then uttering a slight cough at the intrusion of chickens moving toward with a more keen clucking motion of an ever enthusiastic hungry visitor.
To this man’s mind there was but one relief for his insurmountable mental difficulties, and that lay in his horse, now his only companion. They had been together back in the time before the plague like problem swept away people like crumbs. “There is not in my opinion, anything more mysterious in nature than the instinct of a horse, which thus rises above reason, and falls infinitely short of it being a divine energy. Which in man’s mind goes under the title of Good-nature.” Still Swift enjoyed putting pen to paper with his own thoughts. His eyes rested for a moment on a low grey cloud-line on the eastern horizon, but so mocking and unsubstantial that it seemed to come and go as he gazed. Was it the pastures and the hills or the cursed Coronavirus?
Fortunately that slaughter bug was only inside of people, and an epidemic spread by them the world over. Swift struck his forehead, shut his eyes, swatted flies and spat a few times. The Global Pandemic had so far killed 3, 37 billion people, a half of the world’s population is what had been televised. Three billion now living, but still there were more infected than uninfected. His mind confused over the frigging difference between epidemic and pandemic, merely seemed to mentally swallow up and cough away pestilence pissed off confused thoughts in his mind.
Stay away from people was his obvious not self-diagnosed all time prescription, the problem was food, coffee and a female friend. His horse had lots of grass and there was nothing wrong with the fresh running water. Chickens, he could enjoy a free range roasted chicken now cooked on a campfire, he still had a jar of coffee and the distant farm house looked empty of anyone being there anymore.
“Are the spirits of former visitors in the Swallows,” he wandered as they flew through a broken window, chattering, squabbling, and scolding, as if in some survival tongue on tireless wings they drifted through the air. “How damned powerful is the force of habit and how the hell can you alter it and have different results? Birds like people sort of, contending about petty rights and possessions, but not employing their weapons against each other whilst they kill much of nature on the only place they live, Mother Earth.
The rain had not gone away like a symbol of patience into relief, but a patience that was Eternal. Like his thoughts and beliefs that always had the power to fascinate him or lull his nervous anxiety, always returning, like thoughts passing through. Pissed off is how he felt sometimes, this bloody control of him to always search for things. To head off on a journey and the same mysterious magnetism that seemed to leap from the white clouds during a day and that glowing moon at night. Homesick for a place he`d never maybe find. “In time we shall be far from here, not dead hopefully.” He said aloud, squeezing his nose and adding, “out of breath to no purpose, and very busy thinking about what. My bloody thoughts sometimes are worse than I am, just as they are often much better than I am.” There was an awkward pause adding, “me thinks.”
In spite of the rain that now beat against tin roofs and windows, the wind that swirled the straw, the horse and the man whispered together in the corner of the barn, and the magpie, who uttered a satirical and croaking commentary on their conversation from his perch above. It all became so clear to the man, that noise of the rain on the roof like the rattling and scratching of bodies against the building. Like offering an honest sound of weather beyond a noise of a thousand speculations. You know for certain what the sound is and what it is saying. Like it’s just passing by and it being rain it goes along with the belief that it had not offered enough.
He searched the clouds for aeroplanes transporting people to eternal peace to some higher level of course. “Originally Earth was made by woman and rain, and like rain the whole planet is indebted for their fertility. I wander if a day shall come, a fantastic project prove successful, another but larger sort of Noah’s ark space ship, a crew of certain persons who have the character of magicians. If there are angels who record the sorrows of men as well as their sins, those angels know how many and deep are the sorrows that spring from lies and false ideas for which no man is purely innocent. We are all Exiles here on Earth. Oh my dear nature heaven, the flower of all life, restore us to a new planet and only one religion. Admit us to the caresses of our friends in Nature paradise.”
On these accounts, he felt separated not understanding any of the beliefs as to the meanings of human sufferings, yet still mused himself with writing. “A lone horse in a field is always eager to join any other it may see. If it is successful, they will join up to graze together contentedly side by side. They are herd animals and love company. Humans grass together, purely metaphorically, imaginatively in touch with others of our kind, whose thoughts and feelings, whose attitudes to life, we can share. Herd instinct for company, everyone feels it.
When human blood is transfused into pigeon, eel, horse, dog, lemur, or monkey (non-anthropoid), there is no harmonious mingling. On the contrary, the human blood serum behaves in the hostile way to the other blood, causing great disturbance, marked for instance, by the destruction of the red blood corpuscles. When the blood of a Horse is transfused into an Ass, that of a Hare into a Rabbit, that of an Orang into a Gibbon, or that of a Man into a Chimpanzee, there is harmonious mingling of the two. In the Oligocene ages there diverged the branch of small apes, and later in the Miocene, large Apes, the Gorilla, and the Chimpanzee. From this as ages passed there diverged, tentative men, Hominid, but not Homo. No naturalist supposes man to be descended from any living ape, or from any living monkey.
The divergence of humanoid and anthropoid occurring perhaps between one and two million years ago. The link is still missing, there is no known extinct type of anything that can be regarded as the common ancestor of what is man’s Antiquity. Where was the cradle of the human race? An ancient poet is said to have written a poem on the miseries of the world, and then to have thence become so unhappy as to have destroyed himself.
When I reflect on the perpetual destruction of organic life, we should also recollect that it is perpetually renewed in other forms by the same materials, and thus the sum total of the happiness of this world continues undiminished; and that a philosopher may thus smile again on turning his eyes from the coffins of nature to her cradles. Lord of the seven heavens and all of Natures predictions. Oh to the Lord and Lady of Paradise, who hath neither Beginning nor end? Bless on thee as many blessings every day, as would employ my wishes a thousand years that thou shall rest again in the journey of moonlight awaiting the Decrees of Destiny, and that no disaster could ever harm my soul.”
A stranger to the ills which beset a painstaking careful life, not beyond the dripping veins of memory as daylight slowly sinking, an evening mist in the hills. It was not the first time that life became imperfect for both of them. Besides, they were not in a deserted world, for there were houses here and there, and they had seen people. The countryside with very few of them offered a simple solution for him and his horse’s safety.
“Begin by believing.” He often heard these words knowing they always had a particular reason. Sometimes there was a point where he wanted to change something and he couldn’t think quite how to do it, didn’t think anything he heard needed much consideration anyway. Fortunately for him so far his heart and soul hadn’t entered any of the strange unfamiliar sickening populated areas. Having unfolded the map raindrops fell as he bent over to shelter the paper. So many times in the rain the past few days that it was already coming apart at the creases. Therefore, at night beside his campfire, he pressed and flattening it, then he rubbed at the places being almost unreadable with the palm of his hand, like with a magic touch. Lifting up the paper carefully in both hands smiling, putting every bit of his strength into the smile and asking. “I really need to have some indication as to which way to go and what to do when I get there.”
Having passed another night with his normal discomfort and yes a little satisfaction he awoke feeling hungry, so he followed his map which instructed him on getting to his first maybe higher populated area. In spite of his concerns and danger of entering a small city, in comparison to some village, the thought of actually being there amongst the living people not a good idea. For a moment he held his breath with an awful mingling of fear. Then under the influence of his pipe which he had found in his little leather pouch, he became a little less mentally excited. Sometimes his regular habits were never broken by anxiety, he being always feeling fresh and strong, although occasionally he had never slept very well.
A main road without any traffic at all was wonderful, no bright lights and no noise would be his first entry to a certain amount of mental confusion. Packing his few things and wandering what actually lay ahead feeling he needed to shave and to wash away the old thoughts that were always working his mind in some way or another, without a particle of brightness to enliven his new life, is how he thought of it now. Whatever were his personal arguments, and there were doubtless many of them by which this man had justified his past few weeks. After a while he got hold of himself to piss in the same direction he was going to go. Telling himself. “If I can finally control my silent battle with my emotions, and to stop feeling so worried I could sooner stand on my head and to pea straight down, than predict my next move.”
In a voice filled with insight. Swift was, and perhaps still is a timeless master Philosophical magician, and the complications of staying alive have always been a pain for the man to actually forge his character. There still are a few scientists who profess to be able to account by means of their special knowledge of heredity and environment for the vagaries of human nature. We say with the Speaker in Ecclesiastes; “What has been, shall be; what has happened already, will happen again; there is not a novelty under the sun. When anything occurs that one is disposed to call really new, it will be found to have happened already ages before us” ( Ecclesiastes I. 9-10.)
There are no written laws by the God who created us all, which explains why and with more faith it is called. “The word of mouth is an Echo.” Feeling he had no hold on life, no longer the slightest interest in the old or recent news items. “It is safer to be alone don’t get lonesome in all this desolation.” Breathed that boyish daydream of his smile as life came flooding back – the warm familiar sense of his own existence, seeing a rainbow in the sky that would never fade. Therefore he and his horse walked on keeping the clouds of danger and death and its promise before them.Whose trust and understanding alone made possible the fulfilment Of a long – cherished dream - a worthwhile story.