The Narrative of Andrew Newman

A callous man, he has grown cynical at the world around him. The hardened shell of his exterior keeping any source of abuse or affection at bay. Careless actions of others have turned him apathetic, and maybe things are better that way. His passions have been dulled to the point of being subdued. The burn of the alcohol as it slides down his throat is the only gauge he has that feeling anything is tangible. To say that he is desensitized would be a distortion of truth. He knows not how to put it in words, but none the less he still has the burden to bear. A withdrawal from the society at large, he claims no affiliation or clique. Confinement isn’t necessary as he simply wanders the endless chambers of his mind. There’s something that keeps him going though. What exactly it is, he hasn’t put a finger on yet.

“Why do we persevere through our brutish existence? When things are coming to a close, and our end game is surely upon us, what shall accolades and acquisitions do for us? At the end of our days we are unquestionably like the chess pieces that my starched fingers manipulate �" put into the same box. Maybe this is why the caged bird of the hopeless suicidal decides to take their own life. Perhaps they believe that in the end things don’t really matter; for what is life without purpose?”

Andrew deliberates for a while, and finally asks facetiously “isn’t it great to find that you’re really worth nothing?” Strands of Day Old Hate play faintly in the back of my mind, and for a while I can’t help but understand why he is so bitter. Then again, why wouldn’t I? There’s a part of Andrew Newman inside of me - maybe even inside all of us. Whether we push him off to the back burner of our minds is another part in and of itself. Personally, I decide to talk with him and our conversations usually prove enlightening. The duality of man: good and evil, sympathy and stoicism, has been plaguing my mind recently, pervading my thoughts. Andrew is my polarity. Andrew is me, for better or worse.