I don't know how to begin this story, so I guess I'll just wing it.
Once upon a time, there was a man. He was nothing special, just an ordinary guy, except that he couldn't turn the voices off inside his head.
Throughout his childhood, he throttled these voices as well as he could. After all, who wants to be branded a weirdo?
A complicating factor about this man was his name gave itself to an all-too obvious nickname among the cruel classes, who of course surround us, and that nickname was "weirdo."
So, that is as it is and was, and there's nothing particularly significant about his situation. That he may have been overly sensitive about the insults hurled his way only shows how privileged he was, growing up as he did in a place and a time where words were the main weapon hurled at outsiders, as opposed to machetes that cut off your head.
Still, weirdos have to grow up just as inevitably as those in the in-crowd. We all have to take our place in the natural order of things.
This boy-man managed to navigate his way through his 20s and 30s, achieving a modicum of success along the way, before his mid-life crisis hit with a thundering roar like a desert windstorm in the Valley of the Dead.
Ever since then, he has been a wanderer, moving here and there, seeking what comfort as is offered, following the setting sun and the rising moon. He's just another "guy on the lost highway."
The nice thing is whenever he makes eye contact with a fellow traveler, they both know exactly what I am talking about.
-30-
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As you leave your door in the morning and take your first few steps on the open sidewalk before you, a quiet presence drifts over your consciousness. Another step and you feel a firm, but somehow not intimidating, hand on your left shoulder. You stop and turn to see who it is at your side. He is standing just beyond that space within which your comfort would be diminished, arms folded loosely across his chest and head cocked to one side. He is looking into your eyes, and oddly without offense, you know he is reading and measuring your closest thoughts. You see nothing familiar in him at all, and yet you sense an unspoken bond exists. A warm, kindred spirit. Peculiar, counterintuitive.
In any other such approach - a strange male from behind placing an uninvited hand upon you, turning you to a position of confrontation - you would be at least mildly alarmed. Your mind would be pulled instinctively, covering the plethora of potential dangers and beginning the formulation of strategies for your defense, even perhaps physical combat which might be in the offing. A perfectly natural human male response. And yet, you are seemingly anesthetized by his whole manner. You somehow know he is harboring a deep and abiding knowledge of you and he has framed it so that it reflects outwardly no hint of judgment, good or bad. He is perfectly content to be in your presence for this moment.
He speaks softly, “You hurt when you should not and fear what you should not. You have a sword so terrible that few will challenge and a shield so strong that none will pierce. Pick them up, David. Wear them. You can find inner piece then.”
He turns and walks away quietly. You will not see him again. No matter – he has given all that he had and all that you need.
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