A Fine Line

I am caught in the distended bowels of polite society. But not for long.

For I am a painful turd, to be pressed out of its host. My dangerous pursuit of meaning and ethics purged with a satisfied grunt.

I work to tear down the barriers. I fight for silence over the tortured screams of demons never satisfied or satiated.

I start to name the personas that share my consciousness. I’m afraid to speak to them, lest I become that person. The one on the bus who yells and gestures violently to an “invisible” antagonist.

But, as I reject the weightless horror of this socially constructed world, I begin to sense the slippery slope upon which I stumble.

How much farther will I slip before I no longer worry about hygiene or bathing?

Some would argue this point has come and gone.

I watch the old man defiantly jab both hands upwards. He stands abruptly, sending his chair skidding. People look up from their phoneslaptopspadstabletsdevices and then look away. No one wants to risk a connection with crazy. The old man pays no notice, disappearing down the hall to the bathrooms.

He doesn’t retrieve a key from the barista. I watch, curious. He returns shortly, carrying his sweatshirt and sporting a rather stylish Old Navy t-shirt. He sits and opens a stainless steel briefcase from which he retrieves charcoal, three pens, a notebook and a toy airplane.

I want to take his picture, but I am frozen in fascination. His clothes are clean and his eyes sharp as our eyes meet, but he shakes me off. I smile because he actually shakes and gestures me away, like brushing a gnat off his shoulder. His focus becomes the airplane on the table. He plays with it briefly before stooping over his pad and scribbling with one of the carefully selected pens.

He catches my attention when he jumps up, shouting and gesturing into the air. This earns him a stern look from the barista. He gestures rudely back at her and grabs his sweatshirt, head down and disappearing into the hall to the bathrooms. He appears to pay no mind to most social niceties, with the exception of not changing his clothes in public.

He returns, muttering and shaking his head, now wearing the heavy sweatshirt and heading to the coffee bar to order a coffee.

My first and unfair reaction was that this man was homeless. The coffee shop attached to the reference library is certainly fertile ground for those searching for shelter, bathrooms and a place to sit where they won’t be robbed or immediately shooed away.

But his clothes were immaculate. His briefcase quite ornate.

It made me wonder. What if the line between writer and what many would call insanity is finer than I ever expected and easily crossed?