Lunatic Fringe
It is no accident that she sees these things, these glimpses of the future and what lies behind the veil of façade in which some choose to linger. There are no accidents and they always seem to come at an appropriate time in her life; just when she needs the clarity most, but still, always surprising and completely unexpected.
She knew there was a certain level of craziness in him, but wanted to believe it was more of a rebelliousness than actual lunacy; although he claimed to be insane more than once, almost to the point of bragging; as if being insane and unable to control his thoughts and function in society was something to be proud of; an achievement of those with superior intelligence and knowledge. He was intelligent, of that there was no doubt; and strange enough, it was his mind and perception of life that attracted her in the first place, which left her wondering of her own mental stability in the end.
He preached change, was obsessed with changing, always claiming to have or be in process of changing; but people like him don’t change, just talk a good line of bullshit and continue wandering aimlessly; alone, taking up space and doing absolutely nothing for the greater good of mankind, and leaving a trail of destruction and debris in their wake.
She saw him walking the streets along the bay; baggy shorts, sandals and a Hawaiian touristy shirt; a 280 pound chic magnet in tow, in the form of a St. Bernard named Bud. He looked just as he had, but older with rougher edges and quite a bit heavier and wider; still talking his crap, looking for the next big score; still no pot to piss in or window to throw it out of; no longer able to count on his looks and words to lure them on his own, letting Bud do the work of hooking them, as he tried his damndest to reel them in.
Eventually they all stopped listening and even in darkness he couldn’t find peace, as the voices in his head refused to stop taunting. He lived a life of loneliness, claiming to have wanted it that way, but he was a liar and a con, left to reap exactly what he had sown. Unable to hold even the most menial of jobs; no money to feed himself or his dog, he wandered the streets panhandling, with that single copy of the book he had penned, designed and produced years ago by a chic whose name he’d long since forgotten; pages yellowed and dog-eared, no one listening to the raving lunatic, who stood on the corner and read excerpts aloud, from the book by an author no one ever heard of.
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