This is a Man

I want to find it, he screamed, even though nobody was within ten-miles of his location. I want to find it, he cried. I want to be it, he whimpered. I want it to be me

The it that he was getting at was, of course, as it always is with it his one, the famed concept of tabula rasa. He had become obsessed. What was left of such a man could be written on the longer two fingers of one’s hand. The scragged mat of hair that covered his oblong shaped head, the hand-me-down Driza-Bone jacket, the hole-infested sneakers; none of this screams put together, none of this wants you to come up to it and proceed to give it a great big hug.

No, this is a man who is on the edge. This is a man about to fall, about to be engulfed within a tide of coincidences. This is not a man who can look you in the eye and tell you, straight-faced, that he believes his bullshit. This is a man who is on the edge. This is a man who cannot trust himself. This is a man who is close to the end. This is a man who is in trouble.

This is a man.