Strangers

He is a drifter most of the time, spending immortality wading through the endless towns and shifting faces that course within them. He is sad often, melancholy far more. Occasionally, he tries to settle down. He tries all of the things that promise happiness, but, for whatever reason, it never seems to work. Not long anyway. 

Maybe he is searching for something he needs. Maybe he is running from something far away. Maybe he is running from something much closer. It never seems to make much of a difference. The outcome is always the same.

They don't seem to like him much, though the reasons seem to shift often, if indeed there was ever any at all. They are all so similar, it becomes difficult to pick them apart. He has been everywhere it seems, but he doesn't talk about it much. He, truth be told, doesn't talk about much of anything. He is so tired, and he can't seem to find a point anymore.

He exists somewhere between reality and truth, shuffling through the dimly lit streets of conscious, wallowing among the grimy recesses of emotion. Sometimes he has a name, but most of the time he goes without. He is simply "He", anything else would be unnecessary. He is in many stories, much more than will ever be written. He is not eloquent. He is not inspiring. He is never poetic. He is simply "He", anything else would be unnecessary.

He is a friend to none, an enemy only to himself. He is not pleasant to write about. He is not a hero, unsung or otherwise. He is not a champion to any cause, and noble only in ignorance. Nor is he a villain. He does not hate. He does not hurt. He breaks only himself. He is proven simply by his own hardship, and vindicated only be his own existence.

He is a drifter. He is an outcast. He is honest. He is human. He is real in a way that no other can be. And, for better or worse, he is simply "He". He need not be anything else. Anything else would be unnecessary.