old man, the street sweeper and a basketball
The old man answered my first question. He was shambling along in the morning sun, barely conscious of the world around him. His lips were muttering words only he could hear, or understand. The second I walked past him, I found my answer. Yes, the day will come when you will no longer even remember the problems today , or yesterday, or all the yesterdays before. By that time I will have had so many years on my back, that I too will be like him. Shambling along, barely sane, or almost insane.But for now, I still remember yesterday, and I had to know. I turned around and mouthed my first question, why do I do what I do? And having already answered he walked away without even asking for a thank you.
The street sweeper glared at me. He couldn't have been much older than me. And he was sitting inside a drain, his face drenched with sweat. He glared at me. Who am I? He answered me, I am not you, you will never become me. So why do you ask?. You will always be you, and you will always ask stupid questions.
The basketball rolled to my feet, at the bench at the corner of my park. The ball made made me aware of my surroundings. And I knew why I was alone. Because I chose to be. I tossed the basketball back to the kids playing by the swings.
Why do I do it? its because I am unaware of my world. I walk in a fog of self deception and imagined worlds. To an outsider I would be a rambling useless retard. At least the old man has served society.
Who am I? I am a fool who knows nothing more than to ask stupid questions, and to look for the answers like they were the greatest treasures in the world. Asking them takes no effort, requires no strain, and serves no purpose. And thus I am purposeless, and have been for a long time.
And finally, I am alone because I choose to be. I long ago decided that for this period of time,these days and these nights, I would be alone. For penance, or poetic justice. I do not know.
And I do not care. My questions have been answered. And now, I cease to be.
