Runaway fingers on the Keyboard

Like a witless worm, without purpose or direction he roamed the streets. To be fair, the worm at least has some understanding of survival and sustenance which holds its reigns, but this man? Nothing. Why was he so constantly in doubt? The World around him seemed to have belief in him and in his thoughts, then why to him were they so fragile? Was it that the brain which had enabled him to think these seemingly unique ideas was the only one capable of seeing their flaws? Or was it perhaps that he knew no people who would bore holes in his theories for the fear of upsetting him, because they did not fathom the importance of their intervention? He could only guess why a troubled mind like his was being constantly offered support and reassurances where to him his own faults were so clearly visible.

This had to be true knowledge, or perhaps plain sensibility where his own actions were driven by not a societal acceptance but by personal standards. He would if he could, embrace this understanding with the awe it deserved. But his days of being surprised, even pleasantly were long past. His mind a clutter of absolute gibberish resulting from an over consumption of the spoken and written word. He was plagued by that curse of language which put his those thoughts into words, for which there was no adequate vocabulary. At every turning and physical obstacle that blocked his trajectory of motion he found it harder to contemplate a natural action. His mind away from his stimuli, too busy to respond to their calls.

He paused his mechanical motion, standing perfectly vertical to the heated road beneath his feet. What if his mind were open for review at this very moment, his each and every thought being read out in some study of the metaphysical? Would he be of interest to those most uninteresting of scholars who were themselves deprived of living in their pursuit of the study of life? Was the nothingness of his existence of any possible value to anyone who lived in a greater vacuum than he? Great men and women had such ordinary lives, with their expressed opinions gaining momentum only with the sharp push of their demise. Or at least most of which who had been great historically. Perhaps his life would be of greater import in retrospect. An event which he would not witness personally but the possibility of which was at least reassuring.

Lesser men were doing lesser things and there are always lesser men just as there always greater beings. All on this Earth of course and not mere theological excuses for weak wills and a most unfortunate blindness. Yes what he was doing may not be worth much but there were things worth even lesser. So what must he do? This continued aggression in a mind otherwise unproductive was too cumbersome. He wished for a lesser existence, one of simplicity and a casual unconscious abstraction from the Universe which most others seemed to enjoy. He also wished for a lack of knowledge of any other possible forms of existence so he could revel in his mediocrity without recognizing that he ever had a potential to be anything more. But he had given up ‘wishing’ for things long ago. Not for him acts of irrational desire, but chaos driven by his own actions.

With such thoughts he stepped into the familiar coffee shop that was part of his Xanadu, where his thoughts and he could enjoy a relaxed private evening.

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