Forty Eight : Not With Your Hand

Ka, I read once, twice, three times now it seems – probably more – is like fate, but more. Something brimming with purpose and place. Leading those who are struck by it, marked, to where they should be. Where they will be. Where they already have been. I’ve been walking this circle for a good long while like a gunslinger looking for a tower. Aim with your eyes, shoot with your mind, not with your hand. I am the gunslinger, but I gave up my guns. I no longer need them to find that tower, made of black stone among roses so red blood stands out on their silken petals. I no longer have need for those sandalwood grips that hold the keys to doors on their base. For a moment I thought I did not need the tower, but now I know differently, feel I know differently. Ka has made that clear. I will always need the tower, I will always need to climb it, to open the heavy door at the top of the winding stair and step through its blinding, brilliant light. But now, among a hundred or a thousand twists and turns and start agains I have remembered the face of my father. My father who loves me well. The face of my father, whom I thought I had remembered all this time. I have remembered the voice of my mother, who has taught me to be like the stones that hold that monstrous thing into the heavens. I will drag no one into this world to walk with me, to die for my quest. My name may not be Roland, but I am the last of my kind.
I do not kill with my gun. I kill with my heart.

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