Charger Bulletin Prose

In the corner of the street where the blue and white bus passes every 15 minutes, sits a fuzzy faced man who to only I, appears as a human sculpture, carved by the hands of the city- from every unique brick inside the structure of a house, from every cemented square shaped in each sidewalk, from every crooked crack created inside the road pavements, and from every colorful squeak and shout within the metal gates of a public park.

This living statue, this breathing, Thinking Man- but one with the cold curb, connected to his environment, his creator. He sits motionless with eyes of stone, a galaxy in his pupils- each star a story. Undistracted is he by the rushing world, with no reliance on busy music or the aid of any speed flashing technology. Next to the stop sign his brain pulses, the thoughts pumped through his mind no longer within our grasp.

What does he think of? I wonder. Family, finances, lovers, the economy…? Thoughts forever forgotten through time in thought? Yet, without understanding, I find comfort in his position; and without any knowledge on this scruffy individual, I relate- I know.

In the corner of the street where the blue and white bus passes every 15 minutes, sits a fuzzy faced man- a Thinking Man- sitting on top of the world.