Fishbowl

His senses are deluged by a million inputs. Ninty-three million miles away, the sun blasts away at him with a fury unimaginable. Ninty-three feet away a woman in a T-shirt with an illegible logo walks a dog roughly the same color as that sun. A mile away a throng of parents cheer their children on a baseball field. No doubt someone is rounding third and will find themselves the hero of the game. A few hundred feet away scores upon scores of birds chirp away, driven by their own libidos, seeking partners, claiming territory, fending off invaders in a raucous calliope of twittering. A biker arrives from a ride, legs strong and sinewy. He dismounts and knocks confidently on his lover’s door. She smiles and they embrace. He confidently strolls inside. Another man walks a pair of dogs. Was a single animal not companion enough or did he inherit the pet of his new-found mate? A woman arrives home from work, struggling to carry in her groceries. It’s a pity she has no one to help her. The dusky evening is caressed by human chatter. Somewhere, people are talking. Suddenly a couple appears, walking hand in hand. They make their way through the twittering birds, the waning sunshine, oblivious to everything but the other’s hand in their own. The clouds glide along unconcerned. The trees to the west claw at the last remnants of the sunset.

The birds, the people, they all might as well be as far away as the sunset. Ninty-three million miles away or a few feet, it makes no difference. His heart swells with love, yearning to break free and embrace all of mankind. He longs to have someone to care for and share his world with. He looks out on the world and wonders why he has earned such a spot. Why the rest of humanity is cut off from him by an invisible wall. Why no matter which way he turns his nose bumps into an invisible barrier not of his making and beyond his understanding. Why is someone who is so capable of love and caring so incapable of being loved or cared about? The clouds drift by without compassion. The couple returns from their walk to taunt him with their closeness. Neighbors return home, exchanging the pleasantries of friendship, “yeah, right, dickweed!”, “you can suck it!”

He is amazed at how these phrases can denote friendship. They are not his way. He must always be polite, respectful. Perhaps this is the wall that separates him from them. If not this, then perhaps he merely thinks too deeply. Instead of gazing skyward at the million, winking stars that slide in and out from behind the remnants of the dusk’s clouds he needs to focus on the earth between his feet and remain firmly grounded there. No, no, perhaps he is too focused on the earth between his feet and needs to look out and about more. Show more interest in those around him, push himself gently into their lives, contribute to their happiness in some way. But no, that is too aggressive; he must wait quietly for fate to work its magic. He must not push lest people think him desperate.

Indeed, the simplest truth may be simply that some things are meant to be and some things are not. Some fish are meant to swim in the midst of huge and varied schools while some are meant to live remote and solitary lives. If they’re lucky, they find at least one other to share their lives before they leave this world. The true measure of a man has little to do with the company he keeps. Often it is those who have no one to love who are the most capable of loving. It is the fish in the solitary bowl who most needs a companion.