Strangers

I'm not sure how this came about. It's what I get for staying up too late...

Strangers

The strange man was there again. He’d seen him three other times this week. The man never spoke, just hovered close by. He hoped the bus would come soon. He glanced at his watch. Seven minutes. Why did he always have to get places early? He didn’t like this man. He’d never gotten on the bus. He just stood there, waiting for it, it would seem. But he never got on. He was staring at him. It would be rude to not say hello.

“Hello, how are you?” he asked the stranger.

“I’m doing well. How are you?” came the reply with forced politeness.

“Doing well…” He searched for something else to say. The man was waiting for him to continue. His impatience showed only through his eyes. His dark, searching, impatient eyes. He swallowed hard before he spoke. “How is your day going?”

“It sucks. That’s why I’m doing so well.” The sarcasm was unavoidable. “It’s going well, what did you think, numbskull?”

“Sorry…didn’t mean to offend.” His fear was beginning to mount. Something wasn’t right. Not right at all. Something wasn’t right about this man.

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” But it wasn’t fine. He knew it. And so did the stranger who had offended him. “Don’t worry about it,” he said and walked away muttering to himself incomprehensibly.

Relief flooded through him. He felt emboldened by his retreat. “Little touchy…” he muttered.

“I heard that!” the man cried, turning around. His face expressed his rage. There was no need for words. “You think I’m deaf?” he asked, stalking back angrily to the place he was standing.

He backed away from the stranger. “Hey, hey, it’s okay…” he said with rising panic. “Look, calm down. I didn’t mean anything by it! I swear!”

“Oh, but you did…” he said menacingly, then under his breath, “And now you’ll pay…”

“No, please. I really didn’t! Oh…Oh God…No!” He couldn’t even run. He told his legs to. But they didn’t listen. No one ever did.

The bus pulled up and came to a stop.

He raised the knife and drove it into his chest.

A scream of agony rent the air.

He repeated the thrust.

He fell to the ground. “Didn’t…didn’t mean…to offend…”

He smiled “You are forgiven, my son.” He walked away, wiping the blood from the knife onto his coat.

He slumped over dead.

“What happened here?” the police officer asked.

The bus driver fought to keep her composure. “I couldn’t stop him… Stabbed himself, then smiled and said ‘You are forgiven.’”

Inspiration

Inspiration is a strange being. Or rather, a strange abstract concept. Because inspiration cannot be described as a concrete object. It is merely a concept. It is one of those things we can see the effects of, but never see it itself. Now the kind of inspiration I am speaking of is that which stirs creativity inside of you ( I feel the need to specify this, as there are various meaning for the term "inspiration"). The reason I profess inspiration to be strange is because of its unsystematic appearances and transience. Inspiration can come upon you in a moment, sometimes for no apparent reason, and, likewise, it can disappear just as quickly, often at the most inopportune times. Sometimes inspiration appears at inopportune times as well, such as when you do not currently have the time or means to express the creativity which has been stirred inside of you by whatever it was (or perhaps in some cases, nothing at all) that inspired you. Sometimes you are inspired by something, and then at a later time, when seeking inspiration, turn back to this original inspiration, however none is forthcoming. It is not systematic. Although you can at times "find" inspiration when intentionally seeking it, it is a difficult end to achieve, or at the least, this is what I have witnessed from my experiences and encounters with inspiration. It is always changing. What inspired you once may never inspire you again. What has never inspired you, though you have been witness to it a thousand times, may suddenly on the one thousand and first time inspire you more than anything ever has before. And sometimes you may find that no specific object, occurrence, or thought seemingly gives you inspiration; it is simply suddenly there. This is what I have found to be the nature of inspiration. It cannot always be pinned down. It is there, and then it is gone. Its appearance and disappearance cannot be satisfactorily explained. In fact, I am not sure anything about it can be satisfactorily explained. Not for me anyway. This was merely an attempt on my part to explain something which I find to be strange and inexplicable.