A young man runs a hand over the short curtains that cover his tired eyes. He pauses and takes a breath. His hands pause in their slightly circular motion. He lets them fall against his thighs. Does he go limp in defeat? In acceptance? Why does he rub his hands over his face in such a way that his fingers subconsciously smooth out wrinkles across his forehead, and the smile lines he has slowly lost to the sands of time? He confuses another as his hands slam against the platform of a bathroom sink. Why does the room shake so violently at the slip of his touch?

The other thinks in its silence. Will it ask as to what the reason behind his simple touches is? Or will he leave it as what it should be. A mystery to the world. But the young man will know what those touches mean. He will always realize the meaning behind his imperfections across the canvas of his pale frame. But will he share that with the Earth? Does the Earth even deserve to know? Does the other deserve to know?

The other slips into its own state of prodding and pinching to try and understand the young man’s touches. It supposes that its mimicking will help it understand the manner in which the young man touches his own skin. But it doesn’t. It may never understand. But that will never stop it’s trying. Its yearning to know the hidden meanings and truths when really not knowing is what will lead it to the answer.

It never needed to know the young man’s motives. Because in a subtle moment he will disappear through the bleached doors of the gas station bathroom and will never again be seen truly by human eyes. For its was never human to begin with. Why does it care so much? Why does it reflect the unshown feelings of the young man as it gazes into a small pool of water it collects in its hands? Why do we listen to it as it believes that it knows the man by looks alone?

We can’t run fingers and palms over those lines. We can only run soft touches over our own faces unless we let the lions into our cages and our mind-made islands that are formed by the spectrum of fear and pleasure we call experience. Why do we choose to let those creatures into our havens? Does it make us better ‘its’? Do we become the young man if we don’t let them in?

As someone seeking to find an answer to that question I invite you to search with me as I anonymously write my thoughts over a database that no one will look at. Do you wish to see this as I do? Do I just sound like a caked-up face you hear over the radio that hopes to fill your head with troubles that distract you from the mistakes you make? Am I just putting words to an outlet, hoping that if I jab the fork in one more time it will cease to electrify me? Please tell me.

Maybe we need those we let in to tell us if we are becoming the young man. Or maybe we are born with the knowledge of us being so. Perhaps the paragon of just written pages of nonsense can be represented by this short story. I’m not sure exactly what the reason is behind our closed eyelids and rollercoasters we never ride because we don’t want to be thrown off by things we don’t really understand. Maybe doing this will tell me, or perhaps it will drag a few people down with me. Let’s find out together.