Not quite human

         The closet was empty. Very much like its owner, it was bereft of any meaning or purpose. This is not to say that it had ceased to be a closet, but that it held nothing of import or practical use. Again, much like its owner. The very same owner who now stood in front of it, wondering to himself where all his belongings were. In an even more abstract sense, wondering crazily where he fit into this world without all of these belongings.
         No longer defined by a sense of self, or self worth. No longer wondering or giving thought to what his decisions said about the kind of person he was. The only concern left was, if without these possessions was he still valid? A reoccurring theme in his life, and moreover, a question he could not answer.
         At least not answer honestly. It had become apparent in a moment of uncommon lucidity, that without these trappings of a normal existence he was without definition. Without the suits he had acquired over years time, without the business casual attire that he wore to work, without the jeans and button down shirts that he wore when he was not at work, without all of these things he ceased to belong.
         It was so much more than that though.
         No longer holding on to any real relationships, whether they were strictly platonic or otherwise, he had no moorings to a world that holds such artifice so dear to its heart. Going through the motions had no longer become enough, he had to believe and cherish such affectations or others saw the lie. Not just the lie that he portrayed, but the lies that they themselves did.
         How long had he misconstrued these meanings and gave them an importance that wasn’t actually there? Standing out in a crowd was only good when it drew the people swirling around you in closer. As he gazed into his empty closet, he finally began to understand that while he was standing out, he was pushing people away from him. Repelling them with his differences. Trying in vain to make himself clear to people who already understood him better than he did himself.
         The sensation of placing a 9 volt battery against your tongue, feeling it slowly spread through the nerve endings, not entirely altogether unpleasant, but not something you would repeat with any consistency. Something done, and undone in what could be measured in heart beats. A cog bent and misshapen from the weight it carried, a visual reminder of the use it once had and the inadequacy that it now had in the same position.
         Still, a piece of metal to be reshaped and re-forged with subtle reminders of the import it once had. Sentences uttered including the phrases ‘I need you’ or ‘I couldn’t do it without you’. Sops to ones vanity that only succeeded because such vanity was taken for granted. These beggars spirits left twisting in the wind until he came along to give their claims on his own life validity. Never realizing the role he played was of his own design and making. To seek the reason for his artifice, he only had to examine his own blueprints. Ones he had submitted for further consideration and was awaiting an answer on.
         A Rourke, waiting for and accepting condemnation as long as he was able to build.
         As he looked into his closet though, it became clear that the only things he had built were fallacies for himself, that others were all too eager to accept. Embrace and encourage, as long as it kept him relatively quiet and free from trivial fancy.
         A more important question to ponder as we take in his cold and indifferent eyes is, who is actually left inside to wonder at these self realizations?