Once in a man’s experience, there was a moment of weakness. Having lived hardy and proud his whole life, he ventured out into the world to search for humility, perhaps too early in his career of arrogance. Hoping to stage across a challenging dilemma, he walked the streets of his city and fell into a newer, smaller home. Living alone was not new to him, and he eagerly awaited the pain of sacrifice he’d expected would come with the morning, his eyes sloppy with unguided passion. As his thick head plummeted into the pillows he’d set on the tile floor of his kitchen, he thought briefly of his own happiness.
In his dreams, he saw himself in another human’s body. He had spoken to the human before, in a shape less distorted, and felt familiar with its step. They walked like a shadow gently trapped between two mirrors, moving across a novel’s worth of adventure. Just before his eyes opened, they had become a king.
Prior to his excursion, the man was a builder. He had built thousands of amazing things for himself, many of which he never showed anyone. For while he was proud, and most definitely so, he was terrified of the task of humility. Where his peers would praise his creations for their shine and grace, he would be expected to betray them, to tell the people who smiled at his structures that he had created nothing of value. People always expect more, and expect creators to expect more of themselves. Until this point in time, he abandoned the notion.
Fresh and alive, revitalized by his dreams, the man set out with one of his objects, determined to undermine it in front of a whole crowd of admirers. Yet as he walked through the burgh, no one seemed to notice his creation. He was pushed and jostled down a venous maze of concrete, holding the object firmly in front of him, begging for the attention it so desperately needed to be finally thrown by the wayside. For a moment, he felt discouraged. At this rate, he would never learn humility. His art would never be examined, and he could never counter them with his well-rehearsed dismissals.
As he turned for the horizon he’d walked from, just as his eyes crossed the street in his pivot, he had a grand realization. He’d done it! For a moment, he lost faith in his own power, and had become humble. Thinking back on his day, he came to understand that humility could come from anywhere, at any time. Cheery, he tossed his structure in the gutter and sauntered back to his barelaid home, no longer concerned with the power of objects.
That night he had another dream, this time as a freckle sitting delicate on the landscape of his own hand. For the eight hours he slept, he watched a clock glow in the darkness, dripping off of the modern decor in his apartment, now totally devoid of all his masterfully crafted possessions. On his way back home, he had bought all new brand-name appliances to replace them and was proud of his newfound immateriality.
The next day, he still felt like he had much to learn about the world. Having thought for so long that he had taught himself everything there was to know, he understood now that like with his lesson in humility, he could be proven wrong.
These days have just been a fraction of a moment in this man’s experience. This week slips past, and the city told him seven secrets. These were things every man and woman would already know, had they not buried themselves in a hermitage like he had. You yourself know them. It would be impossible for you not to. He was nowhere, and now he’s here. You’ve been here all along.
On the seventh day, he had another dream. This was his last dream of knowledge. The purity of his life lived in solitude escaped on the breath his air conditioning extorted from him in his sleep. In this dream, he reflected as himself on the street outside his home, now devoid of time and life. He found his creation in the gutter and laughed, realizing how small it had become in the rain. It lay there, soggily melting between the drain grate, and seemed discontent to balance so precariously. He nudged it into the abyss, and never saw it again.
That Monday, Chris put on his suit and delivered himself through his city, Mallard Rise, by way of a taxi, to work.
The Tuesday following, Chris put on his suit and delivered himself through Mallard Rise, by taxi, to work.
On Wednesday, Chris put on his suit and took a taxi through Mallard Rise, to work at the publishing house.
This Thursday, Chris will put on his suit and go to work at the publishing house.
Coming up, Chris is going to work at the publishing house.
It is now Saturday. Chris files his papers that he didn’t quite finish up during the week, and checks his wallet to see if he has enough money to buy a pack of beer on the way home. He does, so he makes sure the taxi company sends someone who has time to wait outside while he runs into the liquor store on Fifth, the exact middle point between his home and the publishing house– seven blocks from each.
Saturday night’s dreams are always ones where he’s still drunk, lazily chasing the morning as his heart works to clean his liver before his brain.
He has a date on Sunday.
She’s beautiful.
She’s unique.
Monday.
She follows him to work.
She drove him to work.
But she stays, so she followed.
Tuesday.
They sleep together again, not dispassionately.
Wednesday.
Something’s wrong.
Thursday.
She sees something in him that does not exist.
She sees something wrong.
She’s wrong.
Friday.
She doesn’t exist.
Saturday.
The week repeats with someone new. It goes on like this for a long while, and he slowly mourns his heart, drinking on Saturdays to remedy it. It’s never his fault. It’s never her fault. There is something that some women see in all men, created by many men, that strikes a divide between the genders. Sometimes, when a woman is beautiful, men abuse her. She is altered by man, terrified of her own beauty, and wary of anyone who might wish her well– or any who say so. This is easily mistaken for vanity, but Chris knows that this isn’t always true. Chris is a good man. He is frustrated by the fear of women, but he understands it. It is the same fear he held of humility, keeping him from trusting the world. Where his was based in occupation that he mistook for life, hers is truly the burden she carries all through her days. It is difficult to convince some women of his intentions.
He’s had his fill of sex and beer. He doesn’t want to sleep with her beauty. Chris is tired of sleeping with his beers. He needs to touch her, and to speak to her. Enough to know if it’s right, at least.
But Chris was a good guy. He was considerate. He never pushed the limits, and he was never satisfied. Satisfaction wasn’t important. This is one of the secrets Mallard Rise told him in his first seven days. He lived in discontent for many weeks, a sacrifice he was eager to make in exchange for the happiness he derived from his shallow, discarded creations.
His hermitage was selfish.
He was happy.
He was strong.
He left out into the world, and experienced these days, which have only been a moment.
Chris lives with us.
Chris is unhappy.
Chris is weak.
Once in a man’s experience, there was a moment of weakness.
A moment followed by many more, in consideration of those around him.
Those who had been blissfully absent for so long prior.
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