Strolling along the side walk at 4pm was part of his unscripted daily schedule, if he ever had one. Michael P. was good at socializing, quick-learner as well. A tarot reader once told him he would live a long life, even though he never believed in the uncertainty of superstition. His charcoal wavy hair distraught his eye-sight, to which he was constantly pestered by his curls. His hazel eyes collided thoroughly with his pupils, and his olive skin was uncommon, hence, used to being subject of multiple’s admiration. He had a handful of wrinkles, the one on his cheeks being the most prominent, given that they brutally rested on the skin adjacent to his full lips. He liked to smile, especially with his inconvenient and noiseless acquaintances which usually sauntered with him after they got out of work at 4pm.
After gathering at the most crowded spot of the city, this group of friends often jet to the outsides of the urban cafes, where Michael conversed about his current conflicts and past fracases. He devoted this time of the day to fearlessly articulate about whatever came to his mind, such as his anxieties, and, though he was not closely bounded to these individuals, they were exceedingly attentive.
In addition, this relatively longstanding adult used to be the greatest anarchist of all, not only denying the power of governmental institutions, but those that concerned the family as well. However, he presently recognizes the importance of the most basic of those institutions. Sometimes Mrs. P., a respectable aristocrat, would amble beside the cafe as Michael called out to her.
“Mother, would you like to sit and talk? I can listen,” he would cry.
Yet, she would unobservantly track by. Sometimes his sister Amelea would too pass by the cafe, his and her eyes meeting with hidden affection. Nonetheless, without directing her attention to her brother, she would too proceed to continue with whatever her upcoming was at the moment. For such reason is that Michael enjoyed the company of his friends so much. They were blank pages being fed by the words in Michael’s life. In fact, they were emotion and speechless beings destined to keep Michael from solidity while he treated physical life as a mirage, able to visualize it, but never to reach it.
The people beside him knew Michael Psychotic was not a normal being, and that whomever his friends were, they were products of his unhealthy state of mind. He is one of the “untouchables” or those not dared to be touched by and spoken with. It is only when an earthly being manages to consume his or her fear towards lunacy that this individual would stop gazing at life like a mirage.