abadseed

Ive been sitting in this cell for quite some time now. Im not entirely sure how I got here, but I believe it could have something to do with the state in which my shoes are in. I never realized that so much could be taken from ones soles. A joke, you see? That means I cannot possibly be quite as insane as they have claimed me to be. Let me tell you a story. The story of the rotten soles.
I was outside, maybe two weeks ago, when I saw what appeared to be a man with a beard. I didnt quite understand him. He was walking along carrying a rather large stick, and in this area, sticks are relatively difficult to come by. I was intrigued by the man with the stick. I thought of President Roosevelt, thought this man was substantially smaller than what President Roosevelt could ever have hoped to be.
The man was walking on the other side of the street, walking quietly along. A squirrel happened to come into his path. The squirrel was not unlike any other squirrel you might see on a traipse through the wilderness on any given day out of the year. For some reason, the man with the mane decided it would be in his best interest to take a swing at the squirrel. In all senses of the word, I felt this was a rather senseless thing to do. The bearded man took his stick aft, swung it fore and the squirrel was dispatched quite readily in a puff of scarlet and grey matter.
Now, I beg of you, what would you have done, had you seen such an act of cruelty, an act of betrayal. Yes, betrayal, because the bearded man betrayed Darwin. The squirrel, understand, had a rather intelligent look about him. The bearded man had no call to take a life which was not his own, particularly that of a creature so very dear to us all, since they have been going extinct for some time.
I walked across the street, looking right then left then right again, after I crossed. It seems a little pointless to check before you cross, because there is nothing you can do in this land of Calvinistic remembrances. You can only look to see what you may have caused, not what you cannot control. Because, really, what is the point in watching out for yourself?
I came to the bearded man, I looked at him. He looked sad, but complacent. He knew that he had done something quite out of the ordinary, and I have a feeling that he knew what the next step in this strange soliloquized life he had been heretofore leading would be. I am certain that he knew his monologue was about to become a duet, pardon the expression. His eyes were of an azure tone which I think I may never see again. His lips were rosy in complexion, though half covered by the robust beard which he had obviously been sporting for the better part of fifty years. All that time, grooming, sleeping, walking, sticking around with the lofty idea that he could go around destroying that which we have been told is something sacred. Not life, no, not life.
This cell, I think, will suit me nicely. Ive become accustomed to sitting by myself, alone with my thoughts. They could turn the heat up, if there is indeed a they. I flatter myself, I know, to think that there would be anyone who could concern themselves with my well being. HA!
The man and I stood looking at one another for the better part of five minutes. I was looking into him, looking through him. I could see that he had been a man, at one time, who was concerned with rights and wrongs. Somewhere along the way, he gave up. He let everything fall to the wayside and now, here he was, murdering the innocent. I know that it was five minutes, by the way. I looked at my watch repeatedly, which I think unnerved him somewhat.
By and by the time elapsed, the wind picked up and I shoved the stick into his left eye. He was not expecting it, or perhaps he was. Yes, now that I think back on it, it seems that there is an ever increasing degree of likelihood that he knew full well what my intentions wereand that, I think, is most disheartening. There are only a few possibilities, and none of them are good for me. He may have known to start out the day that he was going to die, and that is, perhaps, why he took the life of the squirrel. If that be the case, I did not control his destiny, and that surely is a problem. A second conundrum, if I may be so bold as present it to myself, is that he wanted to be rid of his life. Again, for the same reasons, that is decidedly not in my favor.
This is becoming rather upsetting for me. I had no intentions of becoming so very worked up over something so small. But, I look at my shoes and realize that, I think, I stepped in the squirrel. Which means, of course, that I am no better than the bearded man.