One man sits stoic with bulging eyes, still and quiet, yet far from serene. He has his own power, the way to make one wonder, but also feels sorrow for his apathy or agony. And what’s more is his ability, like a deer in headlights, to hold firm even as others jeer or gawk. As if he’d been practicing his ways—a zombie with a poker face swore over top an already complicated ruse of layers. With lowered expectations of his self and slowed speech, he seems to be, to me, nothing but a lackluster installment of machinery. And one that cannot, or perhaps will not, empathize with others.
Wondering what he does, how he performs, to cope—outside, I stand perplexed, intrigued and knowingly cast idle eyes in his direction. Miserable, misplaced by society, and burning, sore—throughout his own mind, I learn by his example. The man himself, becomes a shell of whatever he has done or whoever he might be or once was, and remains stiff and solitary—indefinitely.
Older now, than my years will grant me, I’ve come to notice experts in the field. Evaluating naturally…

An expert on giving up
An expert on pouring out
And an expert on jest and self deprecating humor
Experts with persistent agoraphobic tendencies
And by default, experts of the façade—pretenders

So I wonder if a man marked with either A or B, (whichever label has been aptly given to classify) painstakingly absorbs the horror and pain of those surrounding him. Or if he must concentrate as such, just to keep it all out. His eloquence is his ability to keep to himself, and his pain is but a wondrous enigma for only him to feast upon. He shall someday be praised by someone.
Me: sauntering back and forth through hallways and bypassing my ideals, one by one, one day at a time. Me: looking just nice enough or interesting enough to use and to spare. Yet, I don’t have a spare rib to give. And I cannot give away what’s solely mine. I keep a strife or two for fuel and feeling, with attempts to seem engaged with others at this particular Animal Pharm.
And certain doctors are quite skilled in their profession: sales, with an utter coldness portrayed by numbers, quotas, fake names, and orders. To not be commanded, but commended is a complete bliss, a lucky pot of gold, and a human right, all at the same time. “What have YOU taken for granted?” says the pea to the pod…
And why is it that our insides are painted—brightly colored, during the assimilation of a complex chord or b-flat? It MUST be the beats and signature of time. I will mostly just keep an ear out for stalks, and roots, and rain before the wires entangle more than just some disposable bud of chemistry. A burning desire folds and fades to a bittersweet ember encased and surrounded by pockets of steam. And I wait… Slugging back hot vessels of green tea and cracking open pistachios, left and right. I swear I smelled zinc.
Does that mean ‘tis the end? Or the beginning of the end? (For me) For NOW,

…That’ll do pig, that’ll do.