A million ideas race through his mind. They crash into one another in violent speeds, at random, with no reason. Order is unknown, and chaos is common. The thought of balance slips from his grasp and pressure threatens to puncture his values as a man of peace.
Before today, he’s known as someone who minds his business, he finds no pleasure in gossip, only resolution and reason. When observed from the outside, you’d think his composure a flawless pillar of strength and endurance. But inside tells a different story. One of continual damage built over years of silence.
The hours rush him by, but there’s no reason to panic, this happens all the time. His whole life has been a slow-moving time machine jump into the future. A steady pace, 24 hours in a day, every hour last the same time but the minutes fluctuate and feel different.
Extraordinarily patient. He concludes it would be reasonable to stand in front of a train, for hours, maybe days, only to step out of the way at the last second. Why? Only to dance on the edge of disaster, without explanation, without anyone to oppose his way of being.
Who are we to question him– to question anyone?
Now sleep is the only thing on his mind. After a long day, he barters with restlessness in exchange for 6, 8, 12 of rest. At minimum. Time has a way of compounding on a person’s body, the way a quilt consumes a tired mind. Caffeine can only do so much.
A loud thud somewhere downstairs, perhaps in the kitchen, wakes him– or tries. Whatever it was, it can wait. The beat skips, he loses track of time and falls back into a deep sleep. He’ll lay there for hours, days, sometimes weeks.
Empty water bottles lay scattered on his work desk. Curtains blackout daylight and keep the room a cool blue. His room is a mess, a fair representation of his mind.
He’d deny this.
To him, the chaos means nothing more than his creativity manifested into the physical. He finds peace in this. Isn’t it reasonable that his surroundings match his inner self? And if he were to ever organize his room, it would be on his time, because it’s his, and he’ll do whatever the hell he decides to do with it.
Who are we to tell him how to live? There’s enough of us and only one of him. Because, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, this is his story and space and time revolve around him, not us.
Though the same can be said for you.
His heart races but his feet do not move. He’s paralyzed, caught in thought. So much that’s he’s buried himself in a small place, where his ideas echo the same song, and good intentions crash with his regrets and bad memories.
Forever in a loop.
His focus fluctuates from this to that, here then there, you then this. Then back.
He’s the image of a man that chases old dreams. Captured by the hands of time.
A moment in his shoes and you’ll see that history repeats itself. You’d think his patience would have thought him something. All those idle moments, the simple complexity of time magnified infinitely.
Because, in the end, what else is there to do?