(found next to an unused prescription pad)
A man came into my office today. He told me that he was having thoughts. He told me that he always had the thoughts and that the thoughts made him different, that the thoughts gave him a way to be great and a way to understand.
He told me that he was successful, that other’s acclaimed him, that he was wealthy. He told me that he didn’t think any of that was important.
He sat across from me at my desk, and then he took a deep breath. Then he began to speak again, with a baritone verve that rumbled and shook things.
He told me that he had seen beauty, that he had opened himself up to the world in a way that most other people hadn’t, in a way that most other people couldn’t. He was sure of that; he told me.
He told me that it pained him, even just being brought him pain. He kept talking about art and electricity, and he kept talking about power and potential. But then he told me that he hurt the most because nobody seemed to see it too, nobody seemed to think it too.
He told me of when he met certain people and he would shake their hand, hug them or kiss them on the cheek or even just read about them in the morning paper. He told me that sometimes he would feel something in that person, in himself. He told me that he didn’t understand that feeling. He only knew that it was special, beautiful, painful and terrible.
You see, he sat across from me at my desk and he told that I wouldn’t understand. He told me that I couldn’t and that he didn’t want me to.
He told me that he knew I thought he was crazy or ill or unwell. He told me that others had dismissed him similarly, called him weird or sensitive or dramatic. He told me that they look at him and that, underneath their veil of adoration, he can see a familiar idea in their minds. He told me that he’s used to people thinking something’s wrong with him. But he told me that he just conceives of the world differently. He told me that he was real. He told me that what he saw and what he felt was all real.
I began to see him break down as he sat across from me at my desk. He ran a hand through his sandy hair five or six times while the other plucked at the rim of his glasses. He took a breath. Then he spoke again, but with a voice that floated through the air like a cloud of delicate china.
He told me that he needed something. He told me that he understood why I wouldn’t give it to him. He told me that he would get it himself. He told me that he would find peace somewhere.
Then he got up from his chair. Then he left.
What could he have been thinking?