A Lost Man

His hair was white, but dark black at it's root. His nose was large and wide, not sharp on it's end, but well rounded. His eyes were misty and sunken. The lines around his mouth were deep and pronounced. He didn't look distinguished, which was for the best because he wasn't. Instead the man looked like he was a well weathered traveler, which was for the best, because he was.

He would and could talk anybodies ear off for hours about any form of spiritualism that has any known existence. He could win any debate on the merits of any religion. And it was always shocking to everyone that met him that he had no home, and it was even more upsetting to people when they found out that he did not have a home by choice.

He didn't have a home, and when asked about why he chose not to have a home, he would reply with a kind smile "Home never suited me". He wasn't lying, his home never suited him. That was why he didn't have one. He would argue that there are a lot of people that live in homes and it doesn't suit them and that that is why they were unhappy.

People would ask him if he was happy and he would say: "No" And then he would make it clear that his unhappiness had nothing to do with his living conditions. If you pressed him in any other form of questioning you would be met with kind eyes and entertaining lengthy response, but if you pressed him in the questioning about his happiness, after he clarified it had nothing to do with not having a home. He would act like a crazy homeless person.

He was not a crazy homeless person, he was just a homeless person, but he could pretend to be crazy when it suited him. It would only suit him if you pushed too hard in asking about his happiness.

He killed himself. No one knows why. Most people assumed that he was just sad because he was homeless. All agreed he must have been unhappy about that.

Jenny

Jenny had done too much glue, she did too much glue when she was very young. Jenny probably shouldn't have done so much glue, because Jenny lost her mind.

No! Jenny didn't go crazy, Jenny just lost her mind, she lost the ability to learn, read and write.

She did too much glue when she was fifteen and sixteen years old. She did too much glue because her mom hit her. Her mom hit her because, before Jenny did too much glue, Jenny was an asshole.

Jenny is still an asshole. 

Jenny likes to go for walks now, and Jenny likes to scare people. Jenny isn't very smart, but she does remember why she isn't very smart anymore. Remembering why she isn't very smart anymore makes her very angry and mean. She's remembering that nobody made her do the glue That is was her choice. And the glue made her stupid.

So Jenny walks the streets, up and down, scaring people because she's mean, and those that don't know her take pity on her and put up with it. Those that do know her take pity on her but they don't put up with her. They tell Jenny to leave them alone, and then she does.

There's no real point to Jenny anymore, maybe there never was. Jenny doesn't really like life that much, but she is either too afraid or too stupid to leave it. But some mornings, her mom makes her pancakes( her mom doesn't beat her anymore, mission accomplished), and she likes the pancakes. By her kitchen window on sunny mornings she can feel the sun on her face, and she's not so angry.

It should be sunny more often. Her mom should make her pancakes everyday. But she doesn't.

Jenny wants to be the neighborhood mascot, she wants everyone to love her and give her things, and she wants to bring smiles to the faces of everyone in the neighborhood.

Jenny can't because she's afraid.


Jenny is just like the rest of us.

Stop Before You Start

A boy stepped out into the rain with a lit cigar in his mouth. The boy didn't look like a man, and he didn't look like a boy. He had recently learned something very important, that he would probably forget later on in life:

It's fun to smoke a cigar while on a walk in a summer storm.

In fact, it's one of the most simple, fun things you can do with freedom.

The boy was eighteen years old. And he had another advantage going for him. He had what he assumed to be the love of his life next to him; a tiny blond girl. Who also had a cigar in her mouth. Her hair was starting to curl in the rain, and the way that the water rolled off of her high cheek bones made his stomach churn tight.

A crack of lighting. Not foreboding. Delightful.

They held hands and talked about rotoscoping. They were in animation school together. They looked up at the thunderous sky, and wished they could truly capture this exact storm and feeling with their art. They knew that they couldn't, but it would be fun to try. That's the point of things most times. Trying.

The tiny girl looked at the boy and saw the future. The adventure of the world and the possibilities involved with their courtship. She saw them on flights to Europe, engrossed in land and culture that lasts for longer than a hundred years. To experience the rebellion of farting in front of the Mona Lisa, and to get drunk on cheap wine and make love in hostels.

The boy knew the future that she saw. But the boy was scared of that world. He was still just a boy, he didn't want to grow up, not for her, not yet. Not enough time had been given to figure out what it meant to simply be alive in this world, why add to it the stresses of more world with less answers? He wouldn't go with her. They both knew this. They were going to expire, because she was becoming a woman, because she wanted to. And he remained a boy, because he wanted to.


So they held hands. Smoke billowing out around them. Walking in the rain.