No Worries, Just Writing. . .Seriously

There was a man, not particularly old, but not particularly young. Mild mannered in most aspects, always meaning well, but good intentions do not always translate accordingly. He felt he possessed some type of knowledge, some understand of life that others either did not, or chose to ignore.

He sat in the quiet, alone in his room, in a chair that was black and deceptively uncomfortable. He often wondered if perhaps how he sat was defective and it was not entirely, or at all the chair's fault. A life of bad posture and hard work were likely to blame than the actual chair itself.

Thinking about the deceiving black chair was, in fact, part of this gnawing knowledge the man felt he possessed. He constantly found himself taking into consideration the thoughts and feelings of inanimate objects. He knew they had no such things, at least on any sort of level he was capable of understanding, but just like most things in life, it is the thought that counts. So, had the black chair been endowed with any sort of sentience, he felt it'd be necessary for it to know that he did not blame it for its short comings, even though he often said quite the opposite.

Seeing the world around him, as if it were staring back at him, judging in the same way he judged it. That was the curse and the grating, unrelenting knowledge that often denied him dreams. Some nights he would lie in bed, rubbing his feet together, then wondering if perhaps that was a mistake, after all, he had know idea if his feet actually got along, much less would be prone to enjoy being pressed together and furiously stroked like a young couple at a high school dance.

Seeing the world in this way, with all its negatives, did grant him a nearly endless supply of patience. He would often spend time making sure all spare change was facing heads up, that way the men on the coins could breathe easier, if of course, they ever found that breathing became a necessity. In comparison to something like that, people we easy, people could communicate and tell you their needs. He enjoyed helping, he nearly fed off of it. Seeing as most of his endeavors were the pointless and merely the product of an overly active mind trying to give meaning to everything, trying to make something worthwhile.

He was tired, sitting in the black chair, now quite certain it was his and not the chairs fault for the discomfort. All the coins on his desk were heads up, able to take in breath. All was well in his world of friends, family and lovers, he had helped and been rewarded with the knowledge that he had done very well. He had done far better than most and now all was well.

He examined the inanimate world around him and there all seemed to be in order as well. It was a beautifully crafted period in time where everything seemed perfect and perhaps he would find some rest. He swiveled in his chair, noting aloud how nimbly it moved, even with his weight upon it. All was right in the world, animate and inanimate alike.

He saw the gun, resting heavily on the ground. His black chair now facing a darkened window, he stared at the weapon with curiosity wondering how it must feel. It had one purpose, one singular motive for its creation. To be fired. Yet in its life thus far, it had never experienced its purpose. Having all that power, all that ability, a perfect design but never being allowed to use it.

He felt he could relate. He knew how to help.