What do you want to become when you grow up? was their most asked question
And silence was my most given answer
Might as well ask How do you wanna die?
I didn’t. I didn’t wanna grow up
but God, nature, the universe put me through it anyway
And I told God, nature, the universe that I would give up all the possibilities for my future, all the things that I could become if only God, nature, the universe would answer me this one question:
WHY DO I HAVE TO GROW UP IN THE FIRST PLACE?
And a deal has been made and God, nature, the universe said: WHY, IT’S QUITE SIMPLE. YOU HAVE TO GROW UP BECAUSE YOUR GUARDIANS ARE GROWING OLD. AND YOU WOULDN’T WANNA BE YOUNG IN A WORLD WHERE NO ONE TAKES CARE OF YOU, WOULD YOU?
God, nature, the universe was right And I said it was right and the children in the streets and the sewers and the laboring camps and the foster homes agreed with me
We have to grow up
And because of the deal I struck with God, nature, the universe I am now unable to become any of the things I could’ve become
I can only imagine those things and write about them
the law forbids him to walk the streets with the label of that bottle exposed but he does anyway
and there’s no one to care enough to report him
he’s just another drunkard getting his fix
also homeless he wears baggy jeans with lots of unruly strings around the hems and the belt a few holes at the knees a hole in the shirt dirt, sweat, something that looks like blood splotches, something that’s probably just mustard
just another drunkard getting his fix
but they don’t know him for an artist
in the breast pocket of his shirt he holds two long yellow pencils and he uses them to make music for the crows in the park and for the pigeons, though the pigeons are less impressed by his performance
he empties the bottle and finds a park bench and pulls out the long yellow pencils and starts drumming into the wood of the back rest and the crows gather round to listen and sometimes the dogs join as well and sometimes the snails after the rain but never the people
this mentally challenged boy from the countryside I used to watch him in the fields when I visited my grandparents as a kid He was like an exotic thing a wild beast chasing static pray They had no chance, the flowers he would assault them with a killer’s smile, frothing, and would grab and tear and rip them from the stem and would eat them
Nobody knew why and the only explanation given was that he was insane
then the men and women who saw him would scream at him to stop and he would raise his head and watch them like a deer surprised by headlights Then he would spit the colorful froth from his big mouth and would run home hopping and leaping like a horse through the tall grass
He was mostly inoffensive, this flower eating boy but they all told me to stay away from him and would always chase him away when he got too close
Time passed and I moved to the city and went to school there and stopped visiting the countryside and its wonders I got busy and my busy life drove away the magic and mystery of childhood
The flower eating boy is now but a memory neither good nor bad just strange, interesting
He doesn’t eat flowers anymore because he doesn’t live in the countryside anymore No, from what I’ve heard he’s in some mental facility and it was his last flowery meal that sent him there
I don’t know, maybe if they hanged signs with “Don’t wear flowers in your hair!” around the village and the fields that little girl would’ve been saved and the village would still have its magic beast.
Daydreaming as a profession 