Chris

Chris is eight years of age. He enjoys listening. The school teachers tell him things that strum and pluck the strings of his mind. His classmates discuss what they are going to do when school lets out, and he hears everything they say. All trains of thought are filed away so they can be resumed later. Chris never stops thinking.

Chris is fourteen years of age. He enjoys reading. The books talk about people like Chris. Or rather, they talk about people like Inner Chris. Because inside of Chris is Inner Chris, who does anything he wants, and talks to whomever he wants, and says whatever is on his mind. Inner Chris’ mind-strings are always vibrating.

Chris is eighteen years of age. He enjoys seeing. When Chris sees people, he can pretend he is standing near those people. And talking to those people. At night, Chris thinks about what he says, and what they say to him. In bed, Chris likes to stare at the shadows on the walls. Sometimes, he can make the shadows move. He wishes the shadows could talk, because he knows that they know more than he ever will.

Chris is twenty years of age. He enjoys nothing. The shadows move always, now. They don’t talk, but that doesn’t matter, because Chris already knows what they would say. During the day, Chris can close his eyes and see the shadows whenever he wants. Chris keeps his eyes closed a lot lately.

Chris is thirty years of age. He enjoys dreaming. And that’s all he does.