If he is fortunate enough, he has a crappy room to himself.
The room is stashed with books and papers; from the floor to the bed, to the cardboard and down to the top of his glass of drinking water.
Most of the books are opened to page 20, 100-80 and so, placed face-down waiting to be picked again.
Sometimes, he'd sleep with a pen in hand. Other times, he'd sleep with a blank page beside him and wake up with a bomb five-line poetry on it. He'd watch paint dry and call it art, watch a woman walk barefooted at the beach and call it novel.
His computer and phone is full of what could be junks to the average human being. They're full of information and files that only him could read meanings into.
Within a short time, his phone and computer storage space is filled up with his large accumulated junks.
On average, he has very few friends. He Has a strange perception of people he call friends. It might be that bloke wondering what he's doing in his life.
And those people who call him friends, to him may not be seen so.
Thanks to the internet, he has his own audience and some serious online like minds whom when he isn't in his rooms overworking his brains, he chats away time with. Here, he fare better than his predecessors who spoke to the walls and listened to the trees.
He's a chronic thinker. He never stops because he can't. His brain is always busy. And for a fee of I million Dollar, he can't get his head to rest.
More often than not, He's filled a thousand books with writing. Most of which will never see the light of the day. Most of which he'd be too embarrassed to look at tomorrow. He sees everything as story and everyone as a character.
In his head, a thousand stories line up unfinished. he have a big black board in his head where he records everything intellectual to the detriment of little details that could no longer fit in.
His head is so messed up he'd probably forget his birthday. His father's birthday, his mother's maiden name and the name of the lady he's crushing on.
He's got hundreds of contacts on his phone and when he scrolls through it, he's asking himself 'who is this?' and 'who is that?'
He'd ask you your name today, tomorrow, the next and the next. You could have a lunch with him today and tomorrow he's forgotten your face but he has the content of the book he read five years ago imbibed in his mind, word for word. He's that strange.
He finds himself in a crowd and he'll always manage to be alone. He didn't even know how but he always manages to find himself alone. He could stay locked up in his room all day and think it some kind of fun. He'd stare at the flowers all day and prefer the chirp of the birds to any other music.
He's going to somewhere, he lost way, the average normal human being would be panicky but not this one.
He's smiling. He's looking around and he's reading signs. He's picking up details and storing it out in his head. Before he know it, he's in another street and already given up on his original destination.
If he could, he'd even book a room and lodge for the night. He'll visit the reception at night and watch people living the life. He's grinning and laughing out the moment then the next minute, he isn't there anymore; his head has wandered out again.
It could be to the past, it could be an impossible future but then that's it. He passes the night and sets off the next day.
There's an accident on the road, people are shuddering and waiting but he is watching- he's taking mental notes; how disfigured was the car? What colour?
He's hardly sane. A woman is crying but he saw 'A hopeless looking woman whose left cheek was plastered by blood that trimmed down the little cut on her forehead. She was seated on her bag dumped by the roadside, a little further away from the crashed car, clad in half thorn gown, ripped down from her waist revealing a red satin undies which she didn't mind. Clasped between her hands was a breathless 3-year old whose eyes were shut and limbs lifeless, jaw knocked open through where red mass of shattered gums stared at the world...'
He's an idiot you know? He isn't even cringing. He's thrown his gaze into the bus, there's a sticker pasted on the windshield. He's reading the inscription on it, he's looking at the ghostly driver and he's calculating how many more seconds before the police car blaring its siren will arrive.
He has a very odd schedule; you could see him sleeping by 10 Am and eating at 4 Am.
You wake up by 3 AM to use the bathroom and there he is either seated and staring at his computer or his phone screen smiling foolishly at a joke you don't get.
Basically he lives in his own world. And he's created a thousand other words in his head which he always put down in writing.
When he finally present his works to the world, if he was lucky, the world would accept the strange worlds he created, the story, everything- otherwise they'd brand him the mad man he always is.
The truth is, he's not normal. Never was and probably never will. He's hardly sane and in some extreme cases could pass on for a mentally deranged.
He's talking to himself; it's a meeting, a conference and what have you. He's being the characters he created- the sane and the insane, speaking for them and sounding as stupid as you can imagine.
But don't worry, he's probably not totally mad but he's mad anyway.
Most of the books are opened to page 20, 100-80 and so, placed face-down waiting to be picked again.
Sometimes, he'd sleep with a pen in hand. Other times, he'd sleep with a blank page beside him and wake up with a bomb five-line poetry on it. He'd watch paint dry and call it art, watch a woman walk barefooted at the beach and call it novel.
His computer and phone is full of what could be junks to the average human being. They're full of information and files that only him could read meanings into.
Within a short time, his phone and computer storage space is filled up with his large accumulated junks.
On average, he has very few friends. He Has a strange perception of people he call friends. It might be that bloke wondering what he's doing in his life.
And those people who call him friends, to him may not be seen so.
Thanks to the internet, he has his own audience and some serious online like minds whom when he isn't in his rooms overworking his brains, he chats away time with. Here, he fare better than his predecessors who spoke to the walls and listened to the trees.
He's a chronic thinker. He never stops because he can't. His brain is always busy. And for a fee of I million Dollar, he can't get his head to rest.
More often than not, He's filled a thousand books with writing. Most of which will never see the light of the day. Most of which he'd be too embarrassed to look at tomorrow. He sees everything as story and everyone as a character.
In his head, a thousand stories line up unfinished. he have a big black board in his head where he records everything intellectual to the detriment of little details that could no longer fit in.
His head is so messed up he'd probably forget his birthday. His father's birthday, his mother's maiden name and the name of the lady he's crushing on.
He's got hundreds of contacts on his phone and when he scrolls through it, he's asking himself 'who is this?' and 'who is that?'
He'd ask you your name today, tomorrow, the next and the next. You could have a lunch with him today and tomorrow he's forgotten your face but he has the content of the book he read five years ago imbibed in his mind, word for word. He's that strange.
He finds himself in a crowd and he'll always manage to be alone. He didn't even know how but he always manages to find himself alone. He could stay locked up in his room all day and think it some kind of fun. He'd stare at the flowers all day and prefer the chirp of the birds to any other music.
He's going to somewhere, he lost way, the average normal human being would be panicky but not this one.
He's smiling. He's looking around and he's reading signs. He's picking up details and storing it out in his head. Before he know it, he's in another street and already given up on his original destination.
If he could, he'd even book a room and lodge for the night. He'll visit the reception at night and watch people living the life. He's grinning and laughing out the moment then the next minute, he isn't there anymore; his head has wandered out again.
It could be to the past, it could be an impossible future but then that's it. He passes the night and sets off the next day.
There's an accident on the road, people are shuddering and waiting but he is watching- he's taking mental notes; how disfigured was the car? What colour?
He's hardly sane. A woman is crying but he saw 'A hopeless looking woman whose left cheek was plastered by blood that trimmed down the little cut on her forehead. She was seated on her bag dumped by the roadside, a little further away from the crashed car, clad in half thorn gown, ripped down from her waist revealing a red satin undies which she didn't mind. Clasped between her hands was a breathless 3-year old whose eyes were shut and limbs lifeless, jaw knocked open through where red mass of shattered gums stared at the world...'
He's an idiot you know? He isn't even cringing. He's thrown his gaze into the bus, there's a sticker pasted on the windshield. He's reading the inscription on it, he's looking at the ghostly driver and he's calculating how many more seconds before the police car blaring its siren will arrive.
He has a very odd schedule; you could see him sleeping by 10 Am and eating at 4 Am.
You wake up by 3 AM to use the bathroom and there he is either seated and staring at his computer or his phone screen smiling foolishly at a joke you don't get.
Basically he lives in his own world. And he's created a thousand other words in his head which he always put down in writing.
When he finally present his works to the world, if he was lucky, the world would accept the strange worlds he created, the story, everything- otherwise they'd brand him the mad man he always is.
The truth is, he's not normal. Never was and probably never will. He's hardly sane and in some extreme cases could pass on for a mentally deranged.
He's talking to himself; it's a meeting, a conference and what have you. He's being the characters he created- the sane and the insane, speaking for them and sounding as stupid as you can imagine.
But don't worry, he's probably not totally mad but he's mad anyway.
