The Man Who Knew

The man who knew too little knew too much.

The man who knew of everything wanted nothing at all.

The man who knew of everything, wanted nothing more.

The man wanted only one thing.

The man wanted to know why.

The man wanted to know why to wake up every morning.

The man wanted to know why he looked into his blank screen every morning.

The man wanted to know the answers that no one had.

The man looked at the other man; the second man into that place after him.

The second man with a book and blue bag by his side. He sat and said nothing, nothing to the first man, and nothing to no other man himself included.

The man watched nonetheless. The second man soon got up and left. Left the first man with nothing again.

The man was left with nothing and the why; why was he there looking at that second man?

The man was left with “Who is next?”

The man looked at the next man in; sunglasses, curly-haired, too; black slacks and a white button-up.

The man looked at the next man; bald, orange tank-top, a buzz-cut of sorts, brown shorts and white sneakers.

The man looked at the next man; stout, taller than life; green-collared shirt, blue jeans, black Converse to step on the world.

The man looked at the last man; brown cap, green shirt, black pants, grey shoes, grey hair; the greyest man, the last man.

The man looked and looked at the men; he looked for something with little to no reason.

The man looked and thought, “What’s the point?”

The man thought and looked, “What’s his story?”

The man thought about the story.

The man thought about his story. So many stories. “What was their story? Why did he care?”

The man asked himself these questions as he sat in front of his blank screen. A blank glare.

The man looked at the blankness, their blank collectiveness. The ones who wrote, the ones who talked, the ones on the phone, the ones who looked down at their sheeted lack of progress. The man fell into redundancy; was he the only one?

The man knew he wasn’t; green shirt, grey shoes, grey hair; curly-haired, bald, stout; they were blank as well. Even when one of them turned to look at the man.

The man looked away, he couldn’t face his face. Looking into the mirror was ugly.

The man looked nonetheless, even as his eyes looked only into the blank screen before him; what did the blank expression want from him?

The man couldn’t give meaning; he still didn’t know the meaning of sitting there.

The man couldn’t give meaning to anything aside, “Nothing at all.”

The man couldn’t give meaning to nothing!

The man found every meaning in doing so.

The man didn’t have to look at the man looking at him, or the man looking at that man; he didn’t have to look to know they had no meaning.

The man sat without meaning.

Every man sits without meaning.

The man without meaning in return had everything.

The man knew that not knowing was the beauty in everything.

The man knew one thing: he had no meaning; he was ugly and he was beautiful.

The man could see one thing: the beauty in every man.