The wild people, who will not be tamed.
The world says zig, and they say zag. The many say Do! and they say No! The world says Stop! and they say Wont! Wont!
Their way is lonely, and dark, and opposed. Yet make their way they must. For they walk the road of glory, and their feet belong only on it.
This post is for the wild people, who walk the road of glory.
The road of glory is a shining path, and a dark path.
For the many it is a path unseen, covered in brambles and snares. It has no markers, it shows no way.
But for the wild people, it is plain. It is plain and obvious in its treachery and in its greatness. It is treacherous and it is greatness in equal parts.
It is roads unique to each of the wild people, and each walks that singular road alone.
It is a lonely, and embattled road, a road of opposition, of trials, of tempest.
And yet the wild people are never truly alone.
They are never truly alone because they walk the road with, and by, their works, their wild works.
This post is for the wild people, who, by their wild works, must walk the road of glory.
It is by their wild works that they can be recognised. They walk amongst their works, they march with them. Their works sprout from their brow, fully formed, or struggle from their flesh, tearing it in their passage.
Their works are strange, and unpredictable. They are banal, or magnificient, or highly obscure, or all of these things at once.
Their wild works walk the road, as legion. They live in legion, and so they die. Many die almost as they are born. Many more die early in their journey on the road. Some struggle most of the way, but are taken oh so close to the end.
Sometimes they are taken in skirmishes with the enemy, where they are found wanting, misconceived, unworthy. Other times, it is the pestilence and famine that comes with the legion, where many lesser among them fall.
Sometimes they fall and lie and die and rot into the road, and their bones reinforce the road, and others cross over them.
Other times they fall and lie and sleep, for weeks and months and years, and then leap up with a wild shout! and run full tilt along the road once again.
The wild people walk with and amongst their works.
They herd them and tend them. They reach out amongst their wild works and seek out the great ones, helping them where they stumble, carrying them on their backs until they can make their own way again.
And the works stretch out from the beginning to the end, from china to india, from here to Shangri La.
This post is for the wild people, who, by their wild works, must walk the road of glory, from here to Shangri La.
Their wild works are legion and they stretch all along the road. Near the beginning they are uncountable, a horde, threatening to overwhelm all before them.
But the road is so very hard.
And so they march, and they fall, and their numbers thin and thin.
And as their destination comes closer, they are few, and they are staggering, stumbling. They are torn by the thorns on the bushes and they are made lame by the broken ground.
But these are strong ones.
And the wild people walk their wild road and help their wild works. They too stumble, they too are torn by the passage.
And sometimes they see their works enter Shangri La, and they rejoice. Momentarily rejoice.
But the wild people cannot enter that promised valley, not yet.
Their journey is not over. They are shepherds and their works are the sheep, and they stretch from here to Shangri La.
They are generals, and the works are their legions, and they stretch from here to Shangri La.
They are conductors, and the works are their choristers, and they stretch as legion, from here to finality, and together they sing the song of the universe.
This post is for the wild people, who, by their wild works, must walk the road of glory, from here to Shangri La, and sing the song of the universe.
For the longest time the universe was a dead thing, or maybe asleep. It was, and it slowly became more. It unfolded. Like a flower. But their was no bee for the flower.
It was a score, first in one part then in two, then more. A string section, some woodwinds, a timpani. But there was no one to know it, to read the score, to play it much less hear it.
And the dead things; physics and chemistry; they unfolded and unfolded and became, eventually, live things, in little nooks and crannies. Biology. Copying, multiplying, unaware.
And suddenly a key change.
People. Fighting, and loving, and trying desperately to understand. Narrative exploding out of system, ungrounded. Meaning in meaninglessness.
And the first wild people began the first journeys on the first roads of glory, turning themselves deaf to the protestations of the rest, and creating their first great and terrible works.
And so began the true song of the universe.
And all these roads were interwoven, all the works were mingled, all the songs were one mighty song, sung from one mighty score, that was the universe itself.
The mighty universe resonating.
It is a score that we still sing. A score with many pages yet to be sung. A score which is in fact endless.
The wild people walk their roads, ceaselessly, singing and marching and fighting, until finally they too must enter Shangri La. But more and wilder people take their place, walking wilder roads, singing and marching and fighting.
Carrying the universe on their backs, on their foreheads.
This post is for the wild people, who, by their wild works, must walk the road of glory, from here to Shangri La, and sing the endless song of the universe.