On the distance

He’s just a man, or he pretends to be. He’s got one of those faces you forget, that look like someone or anybody. You will pass him at the market, maybe, or going out of church after Sunday mass, but later when your uncle mentions some guy he knew at the service, you realize he’s talking about the same face. It’s the voice that clicks, though. It’s too smooth and the words he uses are from another time; too sophisticated for a simple chat. You will find him charming, even handsome. People listen to him. He is clearly trained in science, and somehow also knows the scriptures by memory. Not only that, yet when artist met him he will slam some poetry and with the veterans he will share a drink and remember all about war.

But if you stand too close to him and put a little of attention; something shifts. The air around him feels older than it should. His voice carries echoes you cannot really place. You realize, slowly, that while you remember seeing him, you cannot remember him arriving. And when you ask others, those who swear they met him before, their stories never quite align. He was here yesterday. He was here a decade ago. He has always been here, and he has never stayed.

His eyes catch light but do not hold it. They are dark; not brown, but more like a pair of black marbles that swallow the room. When he meets your gaze, there is a recognition without empathy, attention without care. You have the unsettling sense that he is looking not at you, but through you, at something you cast that you cannot really see yourself.

He has crossed deserts on foot and passed through towns so forgotten, even time stopped saying their names. He has worn the garments of judges and whores, walked through jails without chains.

He helps build empires, uncover nature’s truths, raise temples that touch the sky; only to watch their rulers burn it all down, brick by brick, until nothing remains but ashes and blood.

He is no mere destroyer. The ground he scorches does not stay barren. Out of the ashes, men discover new beginnings, and with their need to rebuild, new inventions eventually come. He whispers of fire, and from fire they learn how to cast iron swords. He speaks of absence, and in absence they search for community. He shows them ruin, and from ruin others see opportunities.

He gives freely, yet nothing he gives is without a price. For each revelation you lose a feeling , for each tool the envy of others , for each truth a burden no soul was meant to bear. He teaches not to comfort, but to sharpen. He points to the exit, but he does not open the door.

What he takes is always singular: the one thing that made you hesitate. A father’s last words. The face of the first man you killed. The weight of consequence. He leaves you free; free to act without the friction of doubts, free to build without the burden of guilt. And you will build, higher and faster that you ever imagined. Until you realize that what you’ve built has no doors, and you are alone inside it.

A secret costs you a friend’s name. A fortune costs you the memory of poverty, and with it, all compassion for those close to you . He leaves you with power. With knowledge. With everything you asked for, and the inability to remember why you really wanted it.

And sometimes I wonder if he wonders too; whether his purpose is only to unmake. For he has witnessed the flowers that grow in the his tracks. He has seen cities rise on the bones he left behind. Creation is not his aim, yet creation follows him as surely as carrion follows war. Perhaps that is why he smiles, on those rare occasions he loses. For in loss he is not ended, but new opportunities that come with the passing of time.

He speaks in riddles or not at all. Every word has a purpose, every silence gives a moment to his ideas to settle in.

There are whispers of him in every language spoken by men. He has no home yet feels familiar wherever he appears.

Some seek him out. But he is not to be summoned, not to be found.
Wherever men speak of revenge, conquest, gold, or glory; he is already there.

He takes no pride in his actions , nor pleasure in the devotion of those who admire him.
But he thrives in the slow, unseen undoing of those who want to stand apart.
He is not interested in loyalty, only in influence.
A silent partner. A patient investor.

I have seen him. And I know you have too. He was there in the moment you called necessary. When the cost of your ambition fell to someone else, and you let it. He offered his hand, but it was your finger on the trigger. And by the time you realized it is not what you really wanted, you are already at his service.