I see him every day. I see him every where. I went to the liquor store today and he was there. I’m not sure if his face is getting paler or his eyes are getting darker or one of those phenomena is exacerbating the other, I just know he’s tired. And, hell, I GET tired. We all do. It’s something a great lot of us have gotten used to. We hop in our machines to brush past all these sheep while hoping all we’ve been won’t find us in our sleep; but it does. It always, always does, and we don’t like what it means when the monster looks like us:

See, we thought we were in the hero’s shoes, but whomever wins will cause one to lose. so whether we’re the sheep or the wolf in its wool, we are no exceptions, only the rule…

I know, personally, when I try to rest I think of the day behind me and those I still have left and I analyze and I self-defeat, thinking what I would do differently and what I would repeat because if I were you and you were me I would be in your wool. Hiding.

I’ve gotten off track. Let’s get back to the guy. The guy with the paling face and darkening eyes. It’s not really the eyes; it’s the sagging flesh around them, as though he’s haunted by some lost secret that’s found him. Hell, I can relate. I’m not one to hate; we’ve all got things we’d rather throw away. But, secrets, man; on the bottom, they’ve got that little triangle symbol. You know what that means? They’re recyclable and they’ll come back to you. In full.

Looks like he caught on to that. Or it caught on to him. I guess what I’m getting at is that he looks grim. Constantly.

And it grates on me. It makes me so pissed, but why do I give a shit? Am I such a narcissist that his face affects how I exist? That his frown should bring me down?

I get to be such an empath when in a strange town. When searching for the vibe I look to my neighbor and his pallid, tired face is like a fart in my elevator. He’s a grey cloud in my East Texas sky and I just keep thinking “Man, fuck this guy! He’s like Billy Corgan at DisneyLand: It’s the Happiest Place on Earth, you Baby Man!” If you’re so beaten by life then don’t leave the house and subject me and mine to your perpetual pouts. You just bring everybody down.

And again comes the question, why do I care? Because, as I said, he’s always there! Of course when I see him I look away, but I’m telling you, I see him EVERY DAY. Every day, every where. Each time looking worse for the wear. I know soon I’ll look and he’ll be gone. Honestly, this guy does not have long. And after I’ve looked far and wide to no avail I’ll know he died. Just to be sure, I’ll wait a while, but once I’m sure I’ll have to smile.

Believing that he’s mercifully and finally expired is preferable to finding him so broken and tired. And this isn’t selfish narcissism; it’s empathy. Clearly this fellow’s seen more than you or me. I get that it seems cruel or selfish or morbid but honestly I think death is the best thing for him. He’s carrying something so heavy that he’ll never sleep until those secrets or ghosts or whatnot on his soul are six feet deep.

Maybe I should kill him. Maybe that’s the fix.

I can’t believe I said that. But I will say this:

When I see him tomorrow (and I know that I will), perhaps before I think to turn away or kill, I’ll flash him a smile. Maybe a nod. A gesture of encouragement to see if it catches on.

Maybe I can be the change I want to see in this pallid, dark-eyed ghost that haunts me.

“…’cause frankly that’s all anyone can ask for.”