The Man with the Horse

“F.ck!” he yelled in his head. With the sudden reacquisition of visual acuity, he was stirred and riled by the cracks of his broken phone screen that he'd been blankly staring at for some lapse of time, of which he cannot recall how long it’d been on account of how he'd broken his brain some time ago. This, triggered by the anagogical correlation between broken screens and broken brains, had sent him down a black but not bleak vortex of existential inquiries. Like the things you’ve said and done, you can’t unlearn the things you’ve learned, you can only hope that they’d be forgotten - which isn’t necessarily a bad thing - an epiphany he'd realized times before and had forgotten over time, many times over. He’d taken a large dose of acid prior, and was now entranced by the spurred unadulterated thoughts. Feeling disassociated with his physical being, for a split second, he’d forgotten who he was, and it felt good. Then it all came rushing back, and he shot up immediately from his chair. It startled his three acquaintances of the evening. Mumbling unintelligibly about a client and some horse, he excused himself, and swiftly exited.
The sun had set, but he kept his shades on and began walking. He had nowhere to go, there was no client to meet, nor was there a horse to buy, except for the person he must confront inside his head once he’s in the comfort of solitude. For this, he could never truly feel alone. Too often, the times he sought the company of others were just times away from himself. But even during those times, he was never quite there - he was always alone in his head, while his head seldom left him be. The thinking ape is cursed with its thoughts - another realization he’d repeatedly revisit to reassure himself. Like the old Indian tale of the two wolves that reside in every person, he too struggled with his. Although his were not a conflict between good and evil, but a battle of hyper awareness and mindless blunders, of skepticism and blind embrace, of persistence and a lack of focus, and, most of all, of self loath and self understanding. There are no monsters, he’d tell himself, only the misunderstood. His monsters could never be understood empirically, but their rationality is obvious to the keen observer. Like that one time, all bare footed, he walked into a store and casually stole some three dollar flip flops and was immediately caught and made ashamed. “Oh why” he'd ask himself then quickly rationalizing his insanity with all the fallibility, shortcomings and typical attributes of the human delinquent. Then there were moments of brilliance that surprised even himself. Moments that were so remarkable they could hardly be repeated. His life is marred by the duality of sublimeness and fatuity . But he identifies with neither - subscribing only to the incompleteness of his nature, a creature of habit with a head on its shoulders; still learning, still yearning, and filled with grief, remorse, and stupendous jubilation. He faults no one, and tries even harder not to fault himself. Always his own worst enemy, but a true friend in his darkest hours, he is magnanimous - or perhaps it was just the acid.

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