The most boring job experience I’ve ever had was during high school. I wanted to start making more money than what I got for working around the house. So having absolutely no experience whatsoever, I took a job as a quality assurance representative at a startup telemarketing firm near the airport. I trained with about 15 other people who were at least 5 years older than me. Training consisted of one week of learning how their computer and phone systems worked. The final exam was, I’m not kidding, writing down the 50 United States and matching them to their abbreviations. In short, anyone with the equivalent of a 3rd grade education was qualified for this job.

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I first noticed the grey man walking down the street, early in the morning as I was driving in to work. I named him that because that’s exactly what he was. A grey man. He wore grey suede shoes with baggy grey corduroy pants and a grey fleece jacket. A tuft of curly grey hair sat atop his elongated head. Even his skin seemed faded as it hung loosely over his gaunt features. It’s odd, but his blandness is what made him so noticeable. It was as if he absorbed all light and reflection, creating a smokey void as he moved. If he were any other person I probably wouldn’t have noticed. He tilted his head slightly and peered at me through the windshield.

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Years of math classes have deluded me into believing that getting the correct answer isn’t nearly as important as knowing why the answer is correct. What would otherwise be an A+ paper resulted in a zero because I was unable or unwilling to explain my answers.

Philosophy seemed to be the only logical field; where the whole point is to ask “Why?”, and where there is no such thing as a correct answer.

I have found respite.

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Never walk the streets between the hours of 3:30 and 4:00 in the morning. Punks, whores, and the destitute. These are mortal creatures, and will not bring to you anything you cannot endure. But to walk alone, in between the glowing puddles of lamp light, you will hear a faint whimper. Exhausted sobs between labored gasps. Your feet will stop, along with your heart, and you will know in an instant that this is the cry of a child. Your eyes will dart around, but through the black of night they will find nothing. So you will continue to listen.

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The way I feel when I look up at the night sky, and I realize that I’m watching history unfold.  That I’m witnessing macrocosmic events that happened millions of years ago, and everything that ever was and ever will be, down to the tiniest microscopic scale, is part of that history.  I strain to express how beautiful it is.  I have to remind myself to exhale.

That’s how I feel when I think about you.

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