“What do you want?” He asked.
“I have no idea.” I replied.
“Then why are you here?” He responded.
“I’m not.” I denied.
“The problem with you is you’ve got no direction,
You must learn to be happy, must catch the infection,
For everything else is a senseless distraction
The path lies with want and with striving and action!”
“My life isn’t pointless, sure, this I admit,
The struggle is real and it hurts quite a bit,
But self-seeking pleasure’s not gain, but detraction,
The meaning of life must be sought through inaction.”
“Your words are all nonsense” the man said in a hurry.
“A waste, a bludger, all slack, sludge and slurry.
A terrible shame, burden of our time,
Though of course in the end, it’s your life, not mine.”
I looked at him sadly, he looked not a wink,
I thought I might tell him, but what would he think?
When the grand suit he donned was not more than a rag
And he carried his life in a well worn old bag,
The briefest of things, one could say it was rash,
Could not carry his clothes or trinkets or trash,
Instead he held papers, scribbles and scraps,
Ways to bind people, dealings and traps.
“You know” I said at last.
“You could almost be the image of a sage.” (But I said it fast)
“You know” He mouthed with a wink.
“I couldn’t give a flying feck what you think.”