The Wild Man

"Erm..." said the wild man, as he sat on the stool, surrounded by all the little people.

 

And then he realised he couldn't speak and the words he wanted to utter were stuck inside his head. Words such as:

 

"What am I doing here?"

 

And:

 

"Why am I naked?"

 

Words forming questions, which no one could answer, least of all himself, which only heightened the sense of consternation he felt, which was further enhanced by the realisation that he couldn't move.

 

A group of high school girls came into the room.

 

"No!" he said (in his head). "Don't look th-!"

 

The giggling.

 

The pointing.

 

The utter lack of respect for his status as a work of art.

 

"Hang on," he said (to no one but his inner self). "A work of what?"

 

The girls left. And in came the Art Appreciators. Thin men with spiky hair and dark suits, and their bespectacled multi-gender partners.

 

And then further realisation struck.

 

"I was created."

 

"I was not real."

 

"I was imbued with life through the hands of my maker."

 

But his maker... does he know?

 

(he knew his maker was 'he,' for the he-ness of him was imprinted on his 'flesh')

 

The appreciators left.

 

And in he came.

 

Arms folded.

 

Smiling.

 

Hand on chin.

 

Circuitously examining.

 

"I am here," the wild man said. "I am right here."

 

The maker smiled.

 

The maker frowned.

 

The wild man drowned in loneliness.

 

"I AM RIGHT HERE!!" he cried to the oblivion of his soul.

 

"A little over-dramatic," said Don Buick, as he smiled, he frowned, circuitously examining, hand on chin.

 

"You hear me?" said the wild man.

 

"Look at my lips" - they did not move.

 

"Then how do you speak?"

 

"I created you," the maker said enigmatically.

 

The wild man sighed.

 

.

.

.

 

And so night-time came.

 

The people left.

 

Darkness dissolved the membrane of self.

 

He waited.

 

He was filled with the eternity of now.

 

Was this to be how it would always be?

 

He did not sleep, but he drifted.

 

The voice of his maker entered him:

 

"You are fearful," it said. "And ashamed."

 

"I don't understand," said the wild man.

 

"You are as I made you."

 

"Did you intend me to live?"

 

"Do you live?"

 

"We speak!"

 

"Do we live?"

 

"I don't understand!"

 

"I will free you soon."

 

.

.

.

 

So passed the hours, the days, the weeks. And nothing changed, except everything.

 

The wild man (ancient, eternal) was a singularity. Inside his head, he turned away from the unbearability of his existence. He saw humanity on a screen, then the screen was inverted, and the screen was the wild man.

 

The Wild Man.

 

Exhibition closed.

 

"You are free."

 

And he lived no more.

 

[=]