Endless Cycles

 Endless Cycles

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Ah there he is once again, the nameless man. He lives quite a normal life, well, on the outside that is. You see this man has a life of solitude even among others. Resenting those who can walk by with their smiles like they don’t have a care in the world; hating the way everything must be for him, though he knows not even he can fix it; and remembering that even if he could, no one would remember his name. He knew that to not live on in anyone's memory would mean he was truly forgotten. The only ones who knew his name were the ones who couldn't speak.

He had tried and tried, pleading with them, wishing more than anything that they could respond. “Please, Please! Can you hear me?” he said. No response. Only the piercing eyes of them staring back at him.

The reverse was true for the man with no name though, because even though the people could not speak, he knew all their names. He knew what they liked, and he knew when they came and went despite their silence. What the person liked dictated his actions, and those who dictated his actions also dictated how he felt. Whether it be paralyzed with fear, paranoid, frantic, anxious, or calm. Never once though, did the people who could not speak let him feel happiness. It was always an endless solitude for the man with no name. 

He would speak to the ones who could not talk, “I’m sorry for this.”, “I’m sorry for that.” when he slipped up, but most of all he wished he could know how they felt. He thought it must be terrible not being able to convey one's thoughts. Even though they were the ones who made him lonely all this time, he still felt sympathy for them, because though they knew his name, they could not utter it. It was not their fault they could not speak.

These lonely days passed, turning to months, then to years, and even so, they could never respond. They could only listen, and stare back at him. He would call out their names one by one, seeing if anything had changed, and yet, they could not respond. He asked, “What is my name?”and, “Please, how are you feeling?” over and over with no response.

This endless cycle eventually led to him losing all hope of one day finding a name. The only companions in his life could never speak, and he could never make any other friends with no name. Even though he had been called various things by onlookers in the past, none of them felt right.

“I'm sorry.” he said, “I can’t go by that.”

“Well? What can you go by?” Says the onlooker.

“I.. Don’t know.” Says the man with no name.

Well, he talked to these people as if they were onlookers, but really he was the true onlooker. Always peering into the lives of others, wondering what it must be like to feel, to love and to be loved, and most of all, be called by a name.

“What is left for me anymore?” Asked the man with no name to the people who could not speak. Again, no response, the silence echoing back. Finally the man decided, what if I made a name for myself? Even so he knew this could not be, because no name ever felt right to him.

Year after year had gone by, and finally, he decided he’d had enough. He was going to end this loneliness all by himself. So as he readied up the rope, and dangled from the rung, a final thought passed through his mind as the air slowly left him. However, now it was too late.

“What if all along, I simply wasn't listening? What if I just didn’t try hard enough to hear them?” Thought the man who, in his final moments, found a name he liked. He called himself the nameless monster.

As the moment of his demise came, he saw a face. One that he had never seen before. It was like all the others, like the ones who could not speak. Except, this face was different at second glance. He saw it’s lips moving and a smirk on his face; and he knew that this was the one who had kept them silent all this time. For the last fleeting second, the nameless monster was happy. Happy it was finally over.