A million parts of the story had been already told, and a million others were ready to start unfolding in the ceaseless web that is a single person’s life. Now we focus on a tiny, tiny window. One moment almost, and the myriad thoughts that seethe and burn in that fleeting moment.
Before, the nameless man had written. A poem, from the very depths of his soul, a cry to the universe, but what is more a cry to the one. The poem had flowed from his pen in a few scant minutes, a word here or there had needed more than a second’s thought but the whole had flowed almost unhindered as the ink wound it’s way across the page.
He had stopped when no more needed to be said, although there was so much more still unsaid, and he waited.
He waited for the one, the one from whom he so needed approval, for without that he felt… less. He needed the one to ask and be shown, like a small child waiting for teacher to come and inspect his morning’s work. But like a small child, he was impatient, and could not would not did not want to wait; so he showed his work while inside crying out “look, look at what I have wrought and tell me your thoughts!”
And like a distracted mother when that same small child brings yet another piece of art home from school, the one he so needed to understand, read without looking, and smiled without smiling, and said using different words “that’s nice dear” and turned away.
And inside… a tiny part of the nameless man died, but although he didn’t know it, another part grew stronger.