He’s disappeared. He’s not here anymore. Was he ever here? No one knows absolutely, except, perhaps, the aching bones that grind together that may or may not belong to he who is who was. He’s disappeared, yet there he sits on a park bench.

No one notices he who was, as he sits and takes detailed mental notes of all. Each day brings a different spot, a different view. His home is everywhere, and nowhere. He longs for the day he can return to the cavernous compound, but in order to keep it out of the greasy hands of the bankers and assessors, the land surrounding the main house has been leased to a builder as a storage yard — the house protected by the ignobility of a chain-link fence. As the weeds grow, the house blends into the surroundings just like its owner — what happens around appears to be of no consequence.

Occasionally, the skeleton that once held the Captain’s prestigious presence is spotted by a passerby, and the flesh tightens to live for a moment — a moment that cannot last long enough for the fabric of being to build complete. So he who once was watches, observes, learns and ponders. Sitting without purpose, without significance, without expectation, still too attached to his compound to understand his home has always been exactly where he is, never able to be elsewhere.

“Here, sir, I thought you might want a cup of coffee,” the young man offered.

The flesh flushed for a moment and he who was nodded, “thank you,” but spoke not.

“I’ve noticed you sitting here throughout the day, as I have gone from class to class.”

The flesh being so thin, the hot coffee cup warmed the bones quickly, bringing a smile and spark.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s you story. I mean, not to be intrusive, but will, you know, I was just curios, I mean…”

“No story,” the skeleton whispered.

“I’m just curious. My father became homeless, and I…”

“Homeless?”

“I’m not saying you’re homeless, it’s… I was just…”

“I have a home.”

“I’m sure you do. I was just wondering what it was like living outside the traditional society, the traditional home?”

“I have a beautiful home, on a large compound… where a bunch of equipment is now parked.”

“I’m sure it’s beautiful. Is it around here?”

“No.”

“Did you want a ride to it?”

“It’s not around here. Someone’s using it right now, so I can’t go back.”

“Then where are you living?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Where are you staying tonight?”

“I don’t know. You should see my home, though. A hundred citrus trees, a rose garden, it is beautiful.”

“I bet it is, but what about tonight?”

“I have this huge comfortable bed, for… for… for a… for… it’s a big bed, and sooooo comfortable.”

“Where’d you sleep last night?”

“Here, I think.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know that I care to know, or that it really matters.”

“Have you always lived like this?”

“I told you, I have a home. I was living in it not too long ago.”

“What happened?”

“Bills. I was busy fighting the good fight, squeezing the juice of justice, while neglecting the financial tentacles of the modern monied octopus strangling our pockets and purpose while sucking a bit more out of everyday existence.”

“You lost everything?”

“Everything? No, I lost nothing, except my way.”

“But you lost your house?”

“Really, I was just fixture within, but no. No. No, I don’t think so.”

“Would you like to stay with me tonight?”

“It makes no difference, but I am always up for an adventure — at least I was.”

“The dorm room is kind of small, but my roommate is going home for the night, so you can sleep in his bed.”

The shell that once was warmed enough to trace the remnants of tone around the skeleton of forgotten pasts. Why? No, why not? There was nothing to lose, and perhaps this young man is the one who is supposed to receive… maybe he is the one who… maybe… Why not?

“Sure.”

“Would you like to get something to eat, my treat?”

“Thank you.”

The two ate, but talked little. The man who once was listened and watched the younger kind and generous soul. The youngster knew the shell had something to offer, something of value he could use, but it was not going to be given up by the tightlipped skeleton.

The evening progressed, with the younger still trying to uncover the might of meaning he presumed held by the thin skinned skeleton. Nothing was revealed, but he who was listened, learned and understood.

It took little for the warmth of bedding to wrap the bench sleeper and cause him to slumber. He slept, deep, but not for too long. Stirred by the restlessness he was living, he rose from bed in the dark of night and prepared to leave the room. On the back of the door he spotted a chalkboard used for notes. He had something to leave:

Thank you for your kindness. You do not know his, but I know you and who you will become. I have been you, and what you are to become is out of your hands.

The honor and burden is to be yours for only a short period, so make the best of your adventure. I have had the responsibility, and it changed me forever. Accept it. It is your destiny. You are simply the vessel that will be used, as you will not exist without the purpose. (Sound crazy? I’m sorry.)

Thank you again for your kindness. It is hard to accept that your destiny, who you are, is out of your hands, but it is the truth nonetheless. Accept the truth that is within and act, otherwise you are no more than a bookmark holding the page of purpose for another day until one in motion takes action. You must keep moving to meet your destiny prepared, and the movement, the journey is the true destiny. It is out of your hands. You are… You are.

For a period, your humble servant. Forever your friend in purpose.
- Captain Forehead
The guy from the park.

P.S. Thanks for the coffee, and the food, and the warm bed and the hope. – C

It helps to see who you once were.