Alright Here We Go Finally Elaborating On My The Man Whit No Name Theory Which Inspired My Last Drawing-

alright here we go finally elaborating on my the man whit no name theory which inspired my last drawing-

so where to start, The man whit no name is referred to by many names but none of those are really his, at least he thinks so, he uses a name one day in one town and the next day has already discarded in favor of another, he doesn't remember if he ever had a name that was truly his or a surname, he doesn't remember if he ever had a mother or father, siblings relatives of any sorts, he only knows he doesn't have them now.

neither does he remember how he ended up in the wild west on his horse hunting bounties making schemes, drifting from settlement to settlement across the country.

only thing he really knows it's that he has been this way for long, way longer then any human being possibly could, he also knows his face has always stayed the same no new wrinkles or gray hair, his hands still looking young as ever despite the years he feels on them, the years he knows they should be showing by now but they stubbornly don't.

but that's the least of the things that trouble The man whit no name, he could chalk it up to impressive genes if he didn't know for a fact and as surely as the sun is in the sky that he can't die.

he can be shot, stabbed, tortured, drowned and hanged he can suffer and writhe in pain but that doesn't kill him, it's like falling asleep almost one moment he has a bullet wound so large in the back of his head that someone could use it a salad bowl, brain and blood oozing out into the open air, and the next everything is going back in it's place his skull recomposing like a puzzled his scalp skin covering it back up shortly after, leaving only a patch of pink soft skin behind that'll disappear too by evening.

and he doesn't know why, doesn't remember why he is this way either, has it always been this way? was he cursed or blessed? he couldn't say and he doubts anyone else could either.

he spends evening by the camp fire thinking about it trying to force his brain to remember what happened before this life, what happened before the first ever memory he can recollect? nobody is born an adult man whit a rope around his neck hanging down from an apple tree somewhere in Illinois, people are born in all sorts of ways but not like this, there must be a why, an explanation to why for decades he's been the shadow of the west able to be shot but not die, able to suffer and bleed and scream in pain but still wake up from it unharmed every time.

he knows there will be no answer even tough a part of him desperately wishes there was a solution to this, the prospect of wandering earth for the rest of time outliving anybody he menages to be more for than just a nameless man is scary and clutches at his guts like poison does, is the same feeling of when somebody tries to poison his drink he can feel the bitterness sting and tear at his throat and guts until he's spitting out blood and his innards, but they always heal always go back in place, leaving him feeling empty and pained.

he thinks about it every evening jabbing at the dying out camp fire whit a stick when his mind comes to the same conclusion, there is no helping him before he retrieves to sleep, a dreamless sleep that he tries to go to for comfort, painfully aware that while stuck between life and death there's none.