The Forgotten Man
By Sadie Grizelda Forsyth

They all went in and no knew before them sat the closest theing to God they'd ever see in their empty lives. And they snorted and went about their business not thinking, not even seeing, blind to the man who so simply put his soul into ever so many words. They thought of coffee they clenched jealously in their numb fingers. And their minds stayed on the cellular phone that was glued to their deaf ears, of the car that carried them here, there, no where really. They thought of themselves and nothing more.

But the man played on, not thinking himself a god or even close to. He just wanted someone to lend an ear to what he thought himself to be- a dead beat musician. His words fell directly from his soul, making a quick stop at his mind for organization. And they fell on the dirty floor, trampled by a thousand feet again and again, becoming a muddled pulp.

Still the people poured in and out, each being nude in a manner no one thought anything of. But all of this, he was blind to. The shouts and shuffling, the slamming now and again, the snorts of people walking by, none of this bothered him. He played to satisfy himself, to satisfy and expel the thoughts and feelings that gathered in his mind like rain in an ever-rushing river.

This poor man didn't know he was the walking God and never would. The people rushing in and out, deaf to his sweetly sung soul, didn't stop to look, to really see him. Much less could they see the gift, the incredible touch that embodied him and radiated from him, visible to anyone who wasn't so blinded or jaded as to spend their whole lives searching for something they'd never see, much less attain. They scurried by him, not seeing that he was everything they wanted, that they were standing five feet from the most brilliant mind to ever kiss the Earth. Instead they looked to their cellular phone, their jobs, they clung to books to try and fulfill themselves when all they needed was to look upon him for a moment, to hear one syllable that dripped from his lips.

But no. They wished to be blind and deaf and ignorant and stupid. They were all of these things and happy to be so. Not one of them wanted to see him for what he really was because none of them really wanted to find what they searched for, no one wanted to admit that here, in a dirty coffee shop, was everything a human being should be.

But there was something inside him that no one, not even he could see. It was a fire that roared viscously inside his chest. And he was used to it so he couldn't feel it. And they were to blind, deaf, and numb to ever see it.

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