Confidence is not really something upon which a person will merely stumble. It’s a tough task, actually, to find it, build it, farm it and cultivate it. He was never one to accept a challenge. He swivels round in his chair. He needs a new chair; he decides. But where does one simply come across chairs? Where are they made? How do they arrive here? Where do they come from?
He takes a left.
Where does anything here come from? How is anything made? He looks over his right shoulder; someone follows. He remains heading straight. Where does all the stuff that surrounds him come from? He walks faster now and hears the footfalls of whoever pursues him. The only thing he knows for sure is that raw goods do not exist here. Everything arrives in the form of its use, ready to use. So where does all this shit get shipped in from?
He takes a right.
Wait, he trades his time for the acquisition of this stuff. What do the people who accept his time in exchange for goods and payment do with all of that time that he trades? What would he do if he didn’t need to trade his time? What would he do with a life full of time and nothing to trade it for? He stops and glances back over his shoulder. A small group of people look to be meandering the streets nearby. He listens to the whispers. Why is everyone whispering?
He turns around and makes his way back toward the direction from which he came.
Instead of retracing his steps, taking a left where he made a right, he turns right again and returns to the direction he was headed before taking the right, right before he flipped a U-ey back toward where he is now. Where do all these buildings come from? Who builds them? There will be nothing here one day, and then, a building arrives or is set down there by some … outer force? Who would know about such things? Who makes these sorts of decisions about when shit arrives, who gets it, who makes it, where it comes from?
He stops at an intersection where only three roads meet. Kamtruski would know. A simple left, right or straight is not an option. He must make a decision.
What does he really want to know? To where does he really want to go? He digs deep and pulls hard on the line as the sail flies high above him. The waves crash over the side of the tiny boat with the ferocity of … of an angry, spoiled child. With all his weight, he attempts to lower the sail from the mast. He’s soaked and desperate. He passes out under the stress and duress of the life-threatening situation. Wet and cold, he slips deep into survival mode. And then he sees the perfect chair off in the distance. He tries with all his might to swim or run or fly toward it. He wants to have it. He needs to lean back and prop his feet up while in it. He’s in a crumpled heap on a floor covered in hard, industrial-type carpet. Three semi-familiar faces look down on him, “Holy shit, man. What the fuck happened to you?”