There, I will show you the main parts of a man: his legs and arms, his heart, his eyes and his mind. The legs and arms that run and catch dreams all along the path, the heart that makes this suffering sweet with love, the eyes that choose to see what they want to see, and the brain that sees it all, but uses only a little and leaves the rest of it dormant for it believes it is easier to be ignorant.
There is the finest example of a man fighting as a soldier for some cause he had been nurtured for long deep in the heart that became the most potent part of him and drove him charging forward. As he went, everything else went away from him except for this foolish heart that told him to keep up the fight and die for a noble knight that never set foot into battle, but talked about it for long. There the hero died for a great reasonable cause of nothing.
There is the man who chose legs and arms to run along the path of this life and raise a family, which he had on his back for years. Now you see this young old crooked man falling under his burden thinking he is the Christ, as they told him, bearing one more step to his grave with his head held up and high for a life he spent running after the mirage of a dream that is called happiness, and this endless pursuit never ended, so he stepped aside the road, which is full of runners just like himself, put his head on a soft warm stone and surrendered to an eternal sleep.
There you find him on the corners of this life finding vantage points that nobody can see, figuring out the answers for some dilemmas that lasted unsolved for centuries, and building a high wall defending himself against the tide and bombardment of society around him trying to break him down at every chance there is to break him down. Yet, for some reason, the jungle tends to appreciate the shade of a tree after it is dead and can give shade no more. The moment he chose to use his eyes to see, he wrote a line about himself in the ancient book of nostalgia on a page that will not be opened, not before he goes away.
And finally there is the man who doesn’t have hair on his head, but brains twirling all around his head like a priest’s hat. There is nothing worth being fancied by in this world for him except for the things he does not know about this world. He may live and die searching for one secret of this universe. And finally when he finds the answer to his big question, the dark lurkers lick his bone clean, use his findings for their own purposes, and leave him to die in regret of ever having discovered that great secret.
What should a man use then? The thing all men use just the same? We are already using that, and some are using all the other ways to justify this one. We have been labeled, downsized, categorized, minimized into nameable creatures, when the best of us are the nomads, who belong to no country but their own, serving no flag but the one fluttering deep down showing the way of a genuine hero who waits for no one to tell him what he should be like, or who should he be. He will live, breathe, and die away from the molds, intimately close to himself.