The man on the Edge

The man on the edge spoke, yet there was no one to listen. No one yet. He was submerged in the heavy air, his breathing harsh and uneven. And he spoke. He had to be heard. Someone had to listen. His voice was a droning hum. Not so much in the style or inflection in which he spoke, but in the vibrations it made.

The man on the edge said a manner of things. He told jokes. He told tragedies. He told the truth. Seldom did he lie. The man on the edge knew many things. And he knew to tell them right. No one listens to a peddler of lies, says the man on the edge. 

That is what he said. Maybe three times in the past minute

He questioned his creator. That which he loved. And he certainly questioned himself too. If he was made in the same image he was told to be. He felt more wicked than holy.

The edge he sat upon was oddly shaped. It caved into a sharp bowl, with alcoves and recesses that no doubt held countless others like him. The edge is where one finds themselves at time of contemplation, says the man there anyways.

The man on the edge felt no comfort there. It was just his place. And we are not all so lucky to be comfortable where we are. And he drowned that thought as well. All of them were to be shared. And somewhere someone would listen for their own notion of what it means.

He tried again for a joke. A joke that was based in an abstract sort of turmoil that ruined any chance of humor. So, the metaphors he stuck to. Comparing life to a barge being tugged on by smaller boats. But his drone would drown the ships.