The Philosopher Between the Capitalist and the Communist
Chapter 20 : Notes by Opposing Masters
"Bring me back my birds, every last one of them, bring them back to the cage," the Philosopher spoke to himself quietly while studying the two notes of Hammurabi and Solon, "And it doesn't matter if they can't fly anymore, if they lose their grace, or if you only return with a bag full of feathers -- just bring me back every last flying creature, and make them remember that there are still places made out of metal and concrete." The Philosopher's gaze drifts away from the scribblings made on a few sheets of paper, and towards the sky with its infinite endlessness and its herds of clouds and rain. "I wonder how the birds would react if someone were really to say that..." his pace eased as he studied the curls of passing clouds, "I'm sure I'll found out, once I tell them."
It wasn't quite a path that the Philosopher walked, not in the traditional sense of a well-traveled route between two points. But it was a path, in the sense that others had made their treks along the same passage, others were on the same journey. Maybe they didn't share a common destination, but they shared a common breathing space, at least for a little bit -- smugglers, runaway slaves, escaped convicts, and rebellious children, and then... the Philosopher, quietly walking by and through the occasional human being that would show up every day or two. Some of them might've been birds, but at this point, there wasn't enough time for the Philosopher to pick a debate and engage in hours-long discussion on an issue like religion. When any visitor or traveler tried to get him to ask questions or talk to them, pleading with this mystical "Philosopher" they had heard so much about, he could only say, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I must get to Anarchia."
As the Philosopher walked toward his destination, grass and pebbles underfoot, a bird dove through the air and landed on a branch just a few inches from the Philosopher's head, stunning his motion. A quick twerk of the neck muscles back and forth, a sputter or two of chirping, and the small, near-insignificant creature disappeared from sight forever. "Passions rise quickly," the Philosopher said, "But hatred dissipates twice as long." Then he carried on with his walk, taking a quiet puff from his pipe, "There are two empires that make such a great big fuss about property, and there is only one small section on this planet where the only thing they make a fuss about is liberty. Nobody believes you when you tell them that what they are searching for is already inside of themselves. But maybe they'll believe the vengeful hatred in these hand-written notes of tyrants and dictators. Maybe the truth and Philosophy can do something about what is going to happen for the next few thousand years."