Potent American Black Boy (part 2)

It wasn't the -- as an old buddy of his would literate -- the "regular'ness" of life that confused him. It was the voices in his head. The nightly drinking. The isolation between the bare walls of his apartment that got him down. Nothing made sense. Even his certainties. His beliefs hardly gave hope. He converted to atheism to lighten the responsibility of worship which, by standards of his loved ones, made him a failure. A "failure" because he failed to believe. He kept track of his failures. He wanted to refer to them for comfort. In times of cheap booze and costly banter. He wanted to take these failures and remember the pain, so that he may never judge as those around have judged him. He managed a sense of sanity, through his insanity, by way of "street intellectual" self proclamation. His observations of the world were all that mattered. In his mind he could silence a room by proposing an idea --

-- "True wisdom lies in admitting ignorance," he once told a lover.

He knew he'd paraphrased it from a greater thinker than himself. He just could not conjure the brain power to cite the reference. So he claimed it as his own.

His lover -- a petite pale Irish girl with locks that assumed pubescence -- would only give a nod to such wisdom. She did not fool herself into believing she understood. Nor was she about to lead on agreeance. She was more interested in the essence of his statement.

-- "To not know is a form of intelligence?" she asked. "Is that what you're saying?"

-- "Yes."

He lit a Kamel Red and laid on his back. For she wished to know more but he refused to push on. In his mind he had made his point. The very fact that she did not get it was -- in accordance to his jargon -- an understanding of her brilliance.

-- "So by that rational" she persisted. "One does not need to say a word and they've conveyed their intelligence? Is that what you mean? And then by saying that," she mused, "it would, then, remove all needs of opinions? Is that what you're saying?"

He smiled and pulled from his Kamel Red. Then with an exhale of smoke he nodded "Yes."

She thought this to be silly. It was this conversation that put a damper on their future. She knew he was not interested in much beyond the physical. Nor was she willing to be more to him than he were to allow. She simply accepted the limited contact between them, while loathing the blur of the upcoming months.

He did not see it this way.

He hardly contemplated the future but rather suffered in the light of the present (his gift). Even with his run away mind he could not allow an ounce of "what if" since to fall in this form of thinking would create a level of stress he was not willing to hold on to. Nor by gambling his freedom for the likes of a girl with (in his mind) a low intelligence would he rise above his limited progression.

No, dear friends, no. He was not willing.

He was, however, willing to use and be used until the smoke cleared. He was willing to take joy in the happiness of "this moment" that save towards "the big picture." His only strength was in his instinct. His only expression was through the physical. The rest was the air between the gaps he clawed for. The rest was an illusion garnished in secrets. The rest was the smoke that left a trace of it's presence, but unburdened the eye through ulterior flight.