I saw a man this morning, his shirt of fine white linen, his belt of an animal killed to suit his purposes, his conscience borrowed from the world - never any better or any worse - his determination being of one to avoid the suffering of both truth and fiction, to know only of worldly pleasure. His confident cell phone echoed back a voice like his own, he being one to never allow the tormenting question. Satisfied with his call, he stood up as a king before his court, flashing a wealthy smile to me on his way out the door, proudly displaying a sharp, shiny blade covered in blood. "I'm getting ahead!" he decreed in a voice certain the world was with him.
I saw a man this morning, drinking a blind latte of Properly Praised Poison. He giggled and pointed to an article in the paper of a man who got sick drinking poison, thinking the poison was the truth. It was funny, he explained, because the fool drank a poison praised by no one. "What an idiot! I shall mock him in my blog!" announced the high priest. I saw him write his title: "The herd is always right and Jesus got what he deserved." (Later I saw his posting hailed as bold and visionary by those with heads stuffed in sand)
I saw a man this morning who knew nothing but himself and the temperature of his coffee. Triumphs and tragedies were clear upon his face and as his eyes crossed the room faces turned down in shame from his piercing gaze. And because of that, they hated him - they were worldly, he was otherworldly. A man bent with the political bends spoke as the Pharisees of old, questioning the One Who Knew Only Himself on worldly trivia - and when no reply came forth the demagogue had his pyrrhic victory. But the man with coffee merely looked up at his victor and smiled. No, he did not know the current national debt but he knew the guy who was asking him was a prick.
I saw a man this morning, munching hurriedly on a donut of chocolate fear. To him, the world was a place of Heroes To Be Worshiped and Villains To Be Slayed. He needed only for his heroes to prevail to wish away his worries, and for the donut's sugar to keep him comfortably dumb. In rejecting reality's hope, he spewed forth metaphorical stories of intrigue and dastardly deeds replete with delicious answers his misunderstanding mind found delightful and comically convenient. Then he puked his guts out as this was his thirteenth donut of the morn.
I saw a man this morning, old and broken by the wind against him, his calm voice unnoticed by the angry din of the mourning mob. But to me, his was the voice that rose above the donut deliberators who anxiously decried their Unspoken Dread. With their fingers pointed outward, fiery speeches railed against injustice and human weakness. Grounded in tangible testaments were they with arguments both scientific and detached. Brilliant in style - if not lacking in bile. My ears ached from the rising tide of shrill showmanship painting gold upon garbage. But the Calm Voice with no lies to lament I found most worth heeding as he spoke of the donut shop on fire.
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