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The man next door is just not enough. I look at him, and he is empty. His eyes are but hollow beads, his smile is but a strip of pain. His nose reminds me of that of an old, tired man's, but he is no older than twenty-six. It seems that he hears everything but comprehends so little. Yes, he understands the words that pass through him, but why will he not care? And it sounds as if he has a cold every time he talks, or maybe he is so deep into thought that his words just come out quiet and thought out naturally. When he frowns he seems at home, alone in a faraway place that remains secret within his soul . . . his soul. Does he have a soul?
When my father arrives home I run to the backdoor and peek outside. For, this is the same time in which the man next door returns. 'Why does he not use his front door,' I ask my mother, but she does not reply. Often times she says he is a strange man with strange ways of doing things. Well, I do not understand still, because believe it or not we are all strange to one another, and the world itself is strange. What real thing could just burst out of nowhere and deliver humanity through the dust of something that is here by who-knows-what? And well, who even made up the word impossible? Who made up the word real? Why do we use such words when we think too much over things? Is it impossible not to have a soul?
I've never spoken to this man, save once when I asked him for a dime. In reply the man next door told me that it was not a dime in which I needed, but rather the time to borrow such and the audacity to go without. Well, if I was borrowing this dime then why would I need to go without? And why would I need audacity to go without? For sure, this is a mad man. I do not even know why I asked for a dime . . . but I was young at the time, I've changed since then. Does change come within such a small time?
Well, sure. In fact the other day I did not like a fellow lad that I attend school with and just today I asked him to be on my team, can you imagine that? What a change of heart, one would say. My mother would be proud save the fact she didn't know I disliked him in the first place. Should you lie?
Do you know what this man does at night? He sits there on the park bench and thinks about life. Well, I asked my sister to ask him why he does that but she would not and so it is a mystery. The other night he said something about freedom not being the truth, only it was to himself so I should not have heard. He mumbles to himself a lot, or so I have noticed. His hair is of a dark shade, a molded golden brick. Have you ever seen molded gold? Neither have I, but I doubt it's ugly. Do you know how such a strange man could have such beautiful hair? Dark blonde streaked with black, natural black. You can almost tell when a person has dyed their hair a color, but for this man you could not. Was I fooled?
Foolish. My father uses that word very much, but I do not wonder why, for my sister and I are foolish young children. But when I heard the man next door use it I was cautious, because well what did he mean? I could only make out the word foolish. I heard something near, "The foolish children." or maybe it was the foolish will live? What did he mean?
I have never been so interested in such a man. For, I have seen many strange people, some even stranger than himself, but none intrigued my mind as much as he did. I swear that brings something from my memory into the air, something that cannot be seen by the human eye. I swear it is only the eye of himself that can see and understand such nonsense. He eyes are deep-set, almost as if they would like to stay nearest to his brain as possible, so he can see as much as he knows. What does he know? And does he fake his intelligence?
Earlier in the week I heard my mother tell the man next door that he should go to church more often. He replied, "But, why, when I believe one does not need a master to survive and live peacefully on his own land? And if it is not his land, it is not his duty to obey, for he is just an occupant, an inhabitant, and he should not plan to stay for long." But, to my knowledge, to have a soul you must love a master and obey a rule. But the man next door said that he neither loves a master nor obeys any rules, but he does not break any, either. So does he have a soul? For, to have a soul you must be a good person, correct? And if not then what is the use in wasting a good soul on a bad heart? Does the man next door have a bad heart?
Does he have a soul?
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