Talent Collector

          There once was an old man, but he wasn’t even really that old.  It was just an impression that he gave which he carried around etched on his worn face.  You wouldn’t remember this man even if you had met him, for he had a special gift, a special talent.
          One day you’re sitting alone, watching the world go by from your seat on the river bank.  You’re making a sketch of the palace on the opposite bank, pretending to yourself that your style is abstract and not just bad.  He will appear, as if from nowhere.  You’ll be offended for a moment that he invaded your private space, but remind yourself that you’re in public, so in fact have no right to object.  After the annoyance has faded you realise he is striking up a conversation.
          “What’s that you’re doing there?”  Others may ask you this, so you have an answer prepared for such an eventuality.  The answer says ‘study’, something useful and meaningful in the sciences, contributing to society and the future.
          It’s the answer you give for an easy life, because no one likes an artist.  No one likes the people they envy, for living the life they wish they had the courage to.  You open your mouth, rehearsed answer at the ready, and you say,
          “I’m making a sketch of the palace.”  His eye twinkles, a light dancing in the corner, he realises he’s got you.  You stumble and gasp, and search for an escape route, but there is no way out.  So you surrender.  For the first time in a life time, outside of your waking dreams, another asks and you answer, without deceit or retreat.
          The old man sits, and he talks, and you find yourself unable to break a stare, fixated on the words that he utters and expels.  Every syllable a truth from your deepest          darkest heart, something you only ever wished you could be.  He is talking incessantly of himself, of his own life and all the things he has done.  He shares stories of the places he has lived, he tells great tales of all the people he was ever met.  And although with your ears you are listening to every word, with your heart you hear a different story.  You hear a life story you recognise as your own, everything he has done is an echo of a step you wish you had taken.  The more he talks the less you know about yourself.
          You begin to wake up from the trance he has put onto your mind, his words seem loud and out of step.  The light seems too bright and too alive; it hurts to be in daylight.  You want to excuse yourself but don’t want to be rude, waiting for a natural break in his story, and there is none.  He just talks and talks until the world goes quiet.
          As morning breaks and the sun creeps over the palace roof, you raise your head from its slumped position.  The early birds are gliding over the water, fetching food in the morning sun.  A light breeze captures the air and presses a chill to your frame.  You look all about and wonder why you are here.  Your right hand feels empty, like it should be holding something.  Did you have something in your hand when you arrived here?  And when did you arrive?  You search desperately through the backlog and can find no recollection of the steps you have taken.  An old lady shuffles past and glances in caution toward you.  You glance back and pause as she stoops to collect something from the ground.  Holding out her hand to you she clasps a pencil, short and worn from over use.
          “This yours?”  She questions, and pauses, and waits for your reply.  The attempt at recollection hurts but you try and try.
          “You an artist?”  She ventures and pauses some more.  Nothing is there, no memory, no notion, no trigger.
          “I have no memory of ever holding a pencil, so no, not mine.”  The old lady pockets the homeless possession, as you continue to sit, and stare, and ponder your talent-less waste of life, and wonder where you’ll go, and what you’ll do for the rest of your days.