It was always like that – at the wee small hours of the morning, he would be startled to half waking by an Alexandrian sort of knot in his stomach, much like when he was young & adrift at school: He was out of joint & everyday lessons would enter his ear & out the other. In native flaneaur, brooding over why he was there. He was not without ambition, but that thing there, this thing here didn’t augur anything that would leap into the future. He was a drunken boat – the poem, of course, of Rimbaud, who stopped writing poetry at 17, then smuggled arms in Aden & returned home raging mad – tossed by the tide; there would always be that sinking feeling…Was he without ambition, a balloon let loose in the air? He surmised that maybe the young were right: They who had set eyes on the corporate world…It was perfectly laughable, but could he laugh? Now they had assigned him kindergarten chores: Wiping the butts of kids who would one day rule an empire of tradable women & goods. He had lingered outside the circle of power – O How they loved their unremarkable papers & silly titles. Eventually, he would be hounded by nightmares somehow devoutly wished – Become invisible.
But all this is not magical. Almost instead a self-inflicted wound. If he thinks he’s out of it, he should be reminded he has turned into grass & people walk on it like elite golfers do. His melting into air is bad capital & women would avoid him like a plague: He’s zero-sum.
The market in this century rules. If, by some quirk of events, it reconfigures to restore humanity to its soul, he could apply for a job as hero. Meanwhile, he’s simply out of sync.