The notion that we may be lacking in good or common sense is one that no one wishes to accept. Such an idea causes our very skin to crawl and our brows to crinkles into a puglike expression of disbelief: that same expression which passes over out faces when we are given something vile and unwanted, for it is the same feeling that causes it. Sensibility, though abstract, seems to be simple to identify. However, even in its most visible state, it is our wish to turn a blind eye so that we may always find every action just.
For man, the best course of action always seems to be that which benefits him most significantly. A wise man pursues benefits such as safety or venerability. A man’s own perception of the greatest benefit is what determines whether or not it is a sensible action, as his goals are the silhouette to which he builds his path.
Unfortunately, under tense and heated circumstances, man’s destination may in fact be nothing more than a mirage: an illusion of something great that, in reality, cannot truly yield greatness. In pursuing such a hazy vision, man blindly tears through the paths of others, whether or not they seek the same outcome, simply because he cringes at the thought of them being so close to what has come to be such a sacred thing. That thing is, of course, glory.
Though every cactus in this deserted place of false knowledge offers insight, man will not drink any of their juices to clear his mind once glory looks upon it. The heat that beats down on his hunched, shuffling form only makes him thirst more for that final taste of honor. He imagines the cactus flowers as being tossed at his feet in reward for every obstacle he overcomes on the road to glory when they should be taken as warning signs, flashing their bright colours dangerously at him from the barren landscape. They say, “Stop. Go back. Do not press on.” Despite them, he shuffles forward, filling his shoes with sand and slowly wearing calluses into his soles and his soul.
The other men he meets along the way are especially unlucky; if they block his view of the wavering, distant sight of glory, they are a threat to his journey. Like mountains, he sees them as things that must be overcome: undeniably conquered and obliterated from his path. Each victory puts him at a peak from which he may better gaze at approaching glory, as well as spy upon others that obstruct the path ahead.
When man reaches his final destination, he finds that which he seeks in the clutches of another: a vulture, picking apart his dreams and turning the air fetid with the stench of corruption. Man stares this creature in the eye with the greatest and most burning contempt, wishing that the mere glare would drive away the hungry bird. It is a struggle to tear an animal from its meal, and at the end of such a struggle, the vulture lies dead as man stands high in victory, feathers falling like ticker tape in a grand parade celebrating his success.
After the feathers have fallen, man looks upon his prize: his glory. The very thing he killed for, cried for, nearly died for, and struggled so blindly to reach is finally before him. It is finally in his hands, embraced by him, and swung in a wide arc as man danced gleefully with his glory held at arms’ length. His delusion, however, blinds him. The sand that coats his eyes cripples his perception. This thing that man now clings to so desperately, the thing which he pined for so longingly, is nothing more than the rotting corpse of a dead desert rat.