The Man Who Sits Alone

Faux Depart 1

Nobody wonders about him but he is magnificent.
Acutely aware with a blank expression, behind those weary eyes lie pure unpoisoned bliss.

Drinking coffee on a cream confettied stool, he possess nothing.
His existence is a shell; buttoned up off-brand colors and fabrics.
His brown slacks are hemmed too short showing his fraying black socks.

His feet dangle just above the floor. He swings them back and fourth nonchalantly.

People pass and blur. Scream and laugh and yell. And he remains a constant in the changing landscape. An extra in the background. A color in their rods. He’s not original, special or noteworthy. He just sits in silent awe.

His soft wrinkled eyes and lips sit comfortably on his face, like a worn wool throw blanket resting on an arm chair. He knows what we don’t.

He is comforted by chaos and at peace with the disturbed and awful things he’s done.

He is no one and everyone at the same time.

The man who sits alone has forgiven himself. The price isn’t a low one, mind you–don’t make that mistake. He has learned all too well that there comes a price. Which is why people like you and me have no interest in the man who sits alone. Everyday we look past him, we deny our humility, we deny ourselves. We won’t cash-out.

The difference between the man who sits alone and us, is that he is sure that he’s found god while we tilt our heads back, open wide, and laugh.


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