I live inside a parable. I sit atop a mountain and people come and seeks wisdom from me. I write greetings cards and fortune cookies. I am an onanist being asked about the world.
I was in love once, but she got in the way of self-regard and became a broken mirror. I would say that she was a lesson learned but I am single and heart-broken, and dumbfounded by the so-called fairer sex.
They call me a wise man because I wear the uniform and have the accoutrements. There is some wisdom in knowing I have none.
The bus journey this morning, with me in disguise, is long and uncomfortable. I support my wisdom by begging. Seeing little value in what I say, and little value in what I do, I figure I must rely on charity.
Derangement of the senses for me is about ignorance, not enlightenment. I am a worked on stupidity. I am a cathedral of confusion.
When I step into the bank and I see the man with the gun, and I see the man behind the counter afraid, and I wonder, for just a second about my purpose, I see the course of action I must take. The bullet did not have any name on it, so it is not worried, and does not call the friends from the chambers it dwelt in. I am an exploding heart. I have saved someone. I finally did something useful. Wisdom only counting in action is an epiphany I take over the edge into tomorrow.