The Journey.

A man learns how to build himself from a solid foundation first by abandoning the marshes of iniquity around him, sickened by abundance never earned. He turns his back on his bad habits, shuns them, avoids them and focuses only on the good, the pure truth – this new foundation in which he must trust. To do so strips him of all he has known and charges him with the task of creating his own world.

To do so is to take leave of the homestead and throw himself into the cold, harsh wilderness of the mountains. To learn to sleep on emotionless stone in spite of the soft bed of old, to scoop frigid water from the fresh brook on hands and knees in spite of the running tap in a cosy room of old, to furnish the frosty ground with psychological ornaments of true meaning in spite of the physical comforts of home. Above all, to do so is to wish for the cold ground, to relish the fresh water, to desire the responsibility of creating for himself, rather than mindlessly consuming what is thrown at his feet.

It is the most difficult step, as the foundation of any structure must be the most enduring element, bearing the weight of all else. The foundations are laid piece by piece, and they are few but firm. By pacing about upon them, they are aligned, worn smooth, set in their proper places gradually but steadily. This is the most crucial and most difficult struggle – to resist the call of the familiar marsh.

The marshes call at every turn and he hears because they are all he has known. With each heavy slab heaved into place, a deep chair beckons. With each hungry moment, a cheap but unfulfilling dinner calls. He hears rustling in the bushes after dark and he is scared. He is afraid to relinquish himself and abandon the marsh forever.

It may be necessary to venture back there – a man who can surrender his identity all at once had none to begin with – but he learns that the marsh does not serve him, it will corrupt him with its comfort. He is guarded in that place, now, wary of it. He is there only as long as he must be, yearning to return to his barren but truthful stone. The marsh will sucker him into complacency, tempt him with its easiness. But he does not feel antipathy for the marsh; it has no sentience.

Ultimately, he learns his prison was not the marsh but his own iniquity.

And so the foundation grows, soon wide enough for him to make camp there; to train his body until it cries out for rest; to light a fire; to spit an animal upon it, and to gaze up at the stars afterwards, shivering and naked, cold but free. Poor in body, but richer in spirit than he has ever known. He has almost nothing, but he has consigned himself to the path which will lead him to everything he has ever truly wanted.

In thinking this, he realises how little he ever truly desired what he had in the marsh.

He learns a respect for the stone. It is unforgiving and it does not shape itself to him; he finds the smoothest spot to lay himself down, and wants not for comfort. In the marsh he would will its subservience; upon the stone, he forces himself to adapt to it. The stone cares not for his wishes, and a part of him likes it that way.

In time, his body becomes hard as the stone. His mind becomes clear and fresh as the running brook. The creatures upon the fire do not make him fat but supply him with lean muscle, tight and strong, and the energy to build. Before, it tasted bland, now it is succulent – all the more for having chased it, having fought and defeated it. That sickly overload of flavour he used to experience but never once appreciated becomes shameful indulgence in retrospect. He is glad for the little flavour he must earn, and cannot imagine how he could ever stomach the abundance soullessly meted out, aimlessly collected, greedily consumed, forgotten in a moment.

Then the building begins. He is fond, now, of his plinth – and a fine plinth it is – but it could be improved. He journeys out, over long, hard days, and finds flat rocks to build an oven. This will allow him to cook his kills thoroughly, that he may consume more of them. He searches far and wide to find straight, strong timbers to build a small shelter; the winters are too cruel for any man to survive forever. He crafts himself a bow with some arrows and he practices shooting until his aim is true, his reach far and his strikes instant death to all but the greatest beasts.

All this he does not to reward himself for what he has done; but only to empower himself to do more that deserves reward.

His plinth becomes well-trod, coloured with wear. The timbers of his shelter settle, their ties tightening into place after each rainfall. The weaker arrows break and are lost, the bent shafts fly wide never to be seen again; they are replaced with the finest arrows he has yet crafted. He mourns them not. He makes for himself clothes of the beasts he kills, though his body no longer feels the cold. He finds that he can carry water and dried food for days, discovering new hunting grounds, feathered birds whose plumage will make his arrows fly straighter, flint for their tips, sharper than ever.

As the seasons pass, he becomes fast and sure with his bow and spear. He is no longer afraid of the rustling after dark. He tracks the herds of beasts and can hunt to feed himself for one week in a single day. He fills his skeins with water from that loyal brook, and visits it only every other day, now.

And so he gazes up at the stars at night, observing their movements. He sees the flashes here and there, marks them in his mind, marvels at them. He begins to tap a stick while he turns a beast upon his spit, humming in time with it. This makes him feel content and alive. He begins to paint the creatures he hunts, daubing carefully with their blood, a mark of respect.

He begins to wonder about the world afar, and what he might build if he had other men to help. All his routines still test him; they keep him true and honest and humble, but he wonders what more he could learn, what more he could rely on himself to achieve. It is tempting to stay there evermore, upon that hard-fought and worn plinth of stone which has served him so well. It provided the resistance without which he could not possibly have raised himself. He starts to think he has built a more rewarding prison for himself, but a prison nonetheless – how is he to go now back to the marsh and build something greater than himself? The people there would shun a life upon stone, and he cannot bring the stone plinth with him.

One morning, under the most radiant sunrise, he journeys to the mountaintop. All the lands of his noble world are revealed in a single humbling sweep. He sees marshes far and wide, the people living in them. He thinks he spots a few stone plinths here and there, jutting slightly but firmly into the sky. He sees that the stone beneath his feet leads into marsh, into soil, into snow, into leaves, back into stone and so forth, more than he could ever track. It is all connected, all one. He had not left this world, then, he had only found his right place within it. But it is no longer the right place; he must journey forth into that world, into the places he has never seen.

Standing tall and straight, he sees it all before him and realises that he can take the stone with him; it must be carried within, a hard object to remind him of permanence, of toil, and that he can only build upon what resists.

They laugh at him, this wild man, carrying a worthless, useless stone with him. But they only laugh from their armchairs, drunk on their cheap spirits, cowed and bent by the inconstancy which surrounds them. They cannot raise themselves in the marsh.

But standing upon that small stone, the man can raise himself anywhere.