His Yet To Be Titled Story

He reached into the dimly lit refrigerator to pull out what he hoped would be the last chocolate delight for the evening but probably that would not be the case. Just then he noticed the lone bottle of Grape Juice was down to a precious few drops perhaps a bit more. A scamper into the living room to go on a scavenger hunt for a fresh full bottle of that purplish liquid. None in the box by the closet door. A few head scratches later that gave no clue as to his thought process at the moment when there on the floor he ecstatically discovered and recovered one of the last bottles of Grape Juice that could be had. Feeling his way around the darkened rooms he miraculously found the refrigerator door pulled it gently open while placing this round plastic bottle containing this liquid made only from the finest Concord Grapes in front of the box of chocolate on the shelf. No, he did not block off the chocolate. Had he done that a near nervous break down would have ensued.

He was who he was. He is who he is. He exists! Although not known by many. I suspect he prefers things that way as he has always protected his precious privacy. Time and seclusion had robbed him of his face to face socialization skills. Yet at other times he can talk quite freely to others sitting at his black kitchen table that he is not quite sure what it is made of. He is quick with a joke, quip, or funny stories from the past. He will delight you with his exaggerated stories (for comedic effect) that were moments now frozen in time. Via the printed word in combination with his friends the phones he freely talks to people all over the world. They bring words of warmth and caring into his mostly barren life. From recent events, he would rather make connections and friends over the internet. Those are special people to him. He does love people while always longing to help others even if he can’t and won’t help himself.

You dare not give him pre-printed cards or presents bought from a store. He does not want nor will he accept presents from anybody. Receiving makes him feel uncomfortable. He just does not want to feel indebted to anybody especially if money was paid out. The greatest gift you can give him is nothing. A handwritten card with your soul in it he will cherish. He holds onto those cards as those are his treasures. A smile, a kiss, a kind word or even a simple hello bring him the greatest joy. His gleaming Gibson acoustic guitar ignites his dreams of songs written by his hand accompanied by chords you will come to know.

He is a dreamer whose dreams often turn to nightmares that wake him up engulfed in panic. Funny dreams always seem to usher in the morning of the day he would rather not see being born. Waking up to realize the smiles were of times past or a self-conscious mind that tells him this can be so again. Ahh, and it could be good. Castaway his yearning to wander off to where it is he does not know but he senses he needs to be there. It is not where he thought he wanted to be. As he mentally drifts off to distant shores, lands or simply neighborhoods he is desirous of a place where he can be whomever he needs or wants to be at that time. Of doing hurt, he does not think. Never shall his hands form fists. A violent lunge forward is not a possibility.

Undaunted by the dimness of light the iron horse bravely and boldly charges further into this canyon of steel and concrete. A lone figure that is he stares out from the front of the mighty horse mesmerized by the sound of the coded words on the radio. He knows the words as he had long since broken the code.

His main memory is from the time and place where he lived with those who created him in the shadow of the iron horses. Often he would hitch a ride on an iron horse that on which he learned the language of the horsemen. The lights led the horses to where they are supposed to go and back again. Even now he looks up at the trail the iron horses ride upon. Why do they not stop here any longer? What is this horse from another stable doing here? There is room for only one horse in each direction on this winding trail that will deliver it into darkness as it lurches tentatively forward. Undaunted by the dimness of light the iron horse bravely and boldly charges further into this canyon of steel and concrete. A lone figure that is he stares out from the front of the mighty horse mesmerized by the sound of the coded words on the radio. He knows the words as he had long since broken the code. If only he could take the reins of that horse. How great that would be. He would push that horse harder than most would. For the slightest infringement of his rule of law, severe punishment would be brought down on that horse until it died in its tracks. He would not mourn its death. Instead, if he could he would hitch himself onto another horse to do with it what he pleased. His horse, his trail, his way, his direction home. The ride is over. His fantasy is over. The horse that never was his disappears around a curve until it is not seen or heard anymore.

Seagull, you fly, across the horizon, into the misty morning sun. Nobody asks where you are going. Nobody knows where you are from. Nobody asks you where you are going, Now you fly through the sky, never asking why. And you fly all around ‘till somebody, yeah, shoots you down. Mmmm, yeah. Seagull you fly, seagull you fly away. And you fly away today. And you fly away tomorrow. And you fly away, leave me to my sorrow.

~Seagull, Paul Rodgers

Where would a man like this go? You may see him standing alone on a Friday afternoon in a yard somewhere with a stack of bread in his hand. Unhesitatingly he tears the slices into smaller pieces as he tosses them onto a seasonally barren field of grass. The thick yellow loaves of bread are as well broken up and tossed onto that same seasonally barren field of grass. The process is repeated until all crumbs of bread have been dispersed onto this barren field where flowers, vegetables, along with a growing Chinese tree soaked in the sunshine while bathing in the rain had stood side by side. He stands still for a moment before trudging back to the white door leading inside to where his window to the world lays waiting for him.

Then came last Friday when it all seemed to change. He peeked out the window yet not one piece of bread had been moved from where it had been. Layers of yellow lay still. This had never happened before. Saturday came with no change in the landscape. Sunday revealed no change either. Why did they not come? Have they all gone away? Will I see them again perhaps when the flowers start to bloom while their sweet smell fills the air with hope. The earth will have been reborn. Monday morning he pensively looked out the window but in the blink of an eyelid, a smile attached itself to his face. They were back! They were back! They did not leave him! They did not leave him! Once they finished their meal they flew past his window much to the wonderment of the cat who had perched herself there straining her neck to follow their flight. This Friday there will be even more bread. I think they will come back to visit. He hopes they come back. He needs them to come back. Can you tell him to keep looking skyward to witness the flock hovering overhead only to descend until their feet touched the ground?

Does anybody know who he is or thinks they know who he is? Can you be he or he be you? We all have that other side or that part of us that just dreams. The lonely man that looks for love but finds none. A homeless man who wants to live a life again he could be. In truth, we are souls and minds that yearn to breathe free. Release them from the captivity of corporate jungles where humanity does not breathe. He lives to be free but sometimes in pursuit of paper, silver, and copper, he gives it all up. Let his soul ascend to the heavens caressing each cloud along the way along the way on his soulful journey. You can chain him, shackle him, try to break his spirit but he knows that world is only a superficial residence in which he will not lay claim to. You can “train” him and you can “manage” him but you will never have him. The leader clones have met their match.

His yet to be titled story does not need a title. He lives a life of victory over those who did not understand him as they could never understand him. He may get temporarily trapped and be forced to play along in the game but soon he will rescue himself when the cue is given. The purpose to his life is sometimes hidden behind fogged up mirrors or puddles of mud but sooner or later clarity will return.

I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul. Where I’ll end up, well, I think only G-d really knows. I’ve sat upon the setting sun.

~The Wind, Cat Stevens