Many things Make a Man

 A man can get lost in introspection and solitude... and He'll speak of himself in mystery. He'll speak out loud with 5 dollar words and sentence fragments each syllable creating a spark of surprise at their utterance.   He'll think of himself a scientist some moments, observing social formulas and patterns. He'll pick up pieces that he thinks are normal and compare them with traits he thinks he holds, giving great wonder at each shape and picture. He's pause and wonder if they're even from the same set. A man like that will strive to understand himself, so he could be understood, so he could relate, and be relatable. Sharing pieces of his findings with the world with the same confusion of a child who found a syringe in the playground sand. What a strange thing to find, in a place where harmony should dwell. 

A an could get lost indeed in the corners of his own recessive thoughts. Not just in the ways days played out in choices and emotions cultivating vacant stares and quiet words.  With a sense of terminal curiosity he'll question how people can be so assured in trivialities and so adamantly flawed in absolutes. He'll try and sound smart, but also not pretentious. He'll see himself as not particularly anything, and also most assuredly not nothing. His mind will  pontificate philosophy and history, revolutionaries and explorers. He'll ruminate on essences of nobility, chivalry, idealism and valor, but then He knows that He also holds repugnance, contempt, ignorance and bias.  

He'd wander, lost as he is in his thoughts. He'd drift from home to home, state to state. He'd look at the dusty people in their anger, and he'd look at the tree people in their cold.He'd measure their values and their strengths, all the while pulling out pieces of his heart to see if he was one of them. People would tell him to fight a war, and he'd ask why. People would tell him to develop credit and he'd ask why. He'd look at each of them as picture frames and he's a stained glass window in making. They each hold a portrait of a dream, and he'd see himself as an assortment of shattered glass. He's a hundred thousand grains of sand  exposed to the flames of time. 

Maybe He'd call himself a time traveler from the moment he was born, falling backwards through space until a grave breaks his fall. The past is the future, some would say. Look forward to tomorrow while letting go of yesterday, and those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.