The Misery of Man
He stood in the café, third in line, watching the barista steam milk with the precision of a surgeon. Around him, voices rose and fell - laughter, orders, fragments of conversation. A woman behind him was describing her cat’s dietary preferences. A man in front was arguing about oat milk. None of it touched him.
He was alone in a crowd.
When it was his turn, he ordered a black coffee. No sugar. No milk. The barista nodded without looking up. The transaction was swift, mechanical. He took his cup and moved to the window seat, the one with the view of the street and the illusion of solitude.
Outside, people passed in pairs and clusters. Children tugged at sleeves. Cyclists wove between buses. A man in a suit shouted into his phone. The world moved, and he watched.
He sipped his coffee. It was bitter.
He tried, sometimes, to speak. To connect. But words fell like stones into water - ripples, then silence. He’d once told a colleague he felt invisible. The colleague had laughed and said, “We all do, mate,” then changed the subject to football.
He hadn’t tried again.
He read books. He listened to podcasts. He attended lectures. He filled his mind with ideas, hoping they’d bridge the gap. But the more he understood, the less he felt seen. Knowledge became a fortress. He was its only inhabitant.
One evening, he joined a discussion group at the library. The topic was “Human Connection in the Digital Age.” He arrived early, sat near the back. The moderator asked, “What keeps us apart?”
People spoke of algorithms, attention spans, screen addiction. He raised his hand.
“Fear,” he said. “And loneliness. We’re afraid of being misunderstood, so we say nothing. We’re lonely, so we build walls instead of windows.”
There was a pause. Then someone said, “That’s a bit bleak.”
He didn’t return the next week.
He walked home that night through quiet streets. The lamplight cast long shadows. He passed houses with glowing windows, silhouettes moving inside. He imagined their lives - arguments, laughter, meals, silence. He imagined being invited in. He imagined being known.
But he kept walking.
At home, he sat at his desk. The room was tidy. Books lined the shelves. A single photograph stood on the windowsill - his parents, long gone, smiling in a garden he barely remembered.
He opened his journal.
"We are each imprisoned in our own mind. We speak, but the words echo back. We listen, but the meaning slips through. We look, but see only reflections. That is the misery of man."
He closed the journal and stared at the wall.
Outside, the wind stirred the trees. A fox darted across the road. Somewhere, a door closed.
And he remained.
Not broken.
Just unseen.
He stood in the café, third in line, watching the barista steam milk with the precision of a surgeon. Around him, voices rose and fell - laughter, orders, fragments of conversation. A woman behind him was describing her cat’s dietary preferences. A man in front was arguing about oat milk. None of it touched him.
He was alone in a crowd.
When it was his turn, he ordered a black coffee. No sugar. No milk. The barista nodded without looking up. The transaction was swift, mechanical. He took his cup and moved to the window seat, the one with the view of the street and the illusion of solitude.
Outside, people passed in pairs and clusters. Children tugged at sleeves. Cyclists wove between buses. A man in a suit shouted into his phone. The world moved, and he watched.
He sipped his coffee. It was bitter.
He tried, sometimes, to speak. To connect. But words fell like stones into water - ripples, then silence. He’d once told a colleague he felt invisible. The colleague had laughed and said, “We all do, mate,” then changed the subject to football.
He hadn’t tried again.
He read books. He listened to podcasts. He attended lectures. He filled his mind with ideas, hoping they’d bridge the gap. But the more he understood, the less he felt seen. Knowledge became a fortress. He was its only inhabitant.
One evening, he joined a discussion group at the library. The topic was “Human Connection in the Digital Age.” He arrived early, sat near the back. The moderator asked, “What keeps us apart?”
People spoke of algorithms, attention spans, screen addiction. He raised his hand.
“Fear,” he said. “And loneliness. We’re afraid of being misunderstood, so we say nothing. We’re lonely, so we build walls instead of windows.”
There was a pause. Then someone said, “That’s a bit bleak.”
He didn’t return the next week.
He walked home that night through quiet streets. The lamplight cast long shadows. He passed houses with glowing windows, silhouettes moving inside. He imagined their lives - arguments, laughter, meals, silence. He imagined being invited in. He imagined being known.
But he kept walking.
At home, he sat at his desk. The room was tidy. Books lined the shelves. A single photograph stood on the windowsill - his parents, long gone, smiling in a garden he barely remembered.
He opened his journal.
"We are each imprisoned in our own mind. We speak, but the words echo back. We listen, but the meaning slips through. We look, but see only reflections. That is the misery of man."
He closed the journal and stared at the wall.
Outside, the wind stirred the trees. A fox darted across the road. Somewhere, a door closed.
And he remained.
Not broken.
Just unseen.
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