Archive
12/02/08 - (1)
Untroubled
If he were even the slightest iota more than ordinary, He'd be the last person on earth to know, Let alone tell you — such was his utter normalcy.
In no way was he other than white-bread, so-so, Banal, mundane, vanilla, garden-variety, humdrum. So run-of-the-mill was he, people failed to notice him.
He was, for all oxymoronic intents and purposes, An invisible presence, an extant nonentity. His shadow blipped on no radar screens.
Had the word "bland" been wed to his lexicon, He might have stumbled upon his prosaic nature. As it was, his quotidianness troubled him not at all,
Which in many respects — all respects, really — Saved him from the otherwise annihilating realization That innocuousness and anonymity are death.
12/02/08 - (1)
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