Ode to the man, I’ll never know.

I watched a stranger from afar, I’ve watched him ever since. Between my daily mundane life, he never fails to make an appearance amongst the background of schools of fish, most call scholars. It’s fascinating to me, how a stranger can stand so significantly amongst the multitudes. No longer a stranger, I try to decipher his body language, the only existing language we communicate in. I start at the top, analyzing the surface skin that masks the man within. Hair cut so fine, it might even prick. I think to myself, does it sting? Black ink marks his tapestry, amongst his boulder piercings that hang spherically within his earlobes.

He is ever so casual with a touch of rebel class. His everyday attire, in theory seldom thought of. But then again, perhaps his dress code, his colours or banners of war, his life, the battle ground. As, Leo F. Buscaglia once said “The hardest battle you’re ever going to fight is the battle to be just, you”.

Who he is, as a man? Does it lie in the little things I take notice of? Those are the only means to comprehend him, a stranger that I know nothing of. His shaven head, maybe he’s simple? His artistic native ink marks, foretelling where he’s been? Maybe, they be, badges and scars, as he screams with every sigh, “Never give up, never surrender”. What of his various t-shirts? Emblems of anarchy? Perhaps, living within the peace of individuality? Oh, what a walking, striving contradiction to society.

Ode to the man, I’ll never know.