House of Fools

Hector cannot recall the day it started. The day he started to separate himself from the joint-stock company of society. Not by creating a social barrier but by releasing himself of the chains that is the human condition. Valuing the logic of a person than their feelings was a way of escape. Oh, he loved to escape. The feeling that he was able to stand in a hallway and watch the influx of people passing was exhilarating. Each leaving its mark, its color, on the white walls surrounding him. He was able to envision the final product of the faceless human that happened to pass by on their daily routine. He was able to capture their life in a still frame and stand in awe. He was able to do all of this but he never quite understood. Hector was just looking to get control, that’s what it’s all about, control. It was that and conforming to expectations, living to the standards of society that are both impossible and imaginary to meet.
He was lost. Lost, yes, lost; that's all that describes his facial features, his emotional and cognitive tendencies, his intentions and his love. Being lost was the path to finding himself, unraveling itself, opening all the locked doors and tying all the loose ends, until of course, it would lead him to more tangles, more problems, and thus back to square one: being lost. Although he was lost, society was still able to place him in a category: he was a dreamer, a thinker, and an idealist. It was not that he did not accomplish things, society merely placed him there because of the tangibility of his thoughts, the eclectic topics brought upon a mere idea and the reality behind his imagination. In the hallway where he stood, he was walking through the heads of individual after individual and as lost as he was in his world, in their world, that is the world he creates by penetrating their minds, he was able to be at peace. The exit to this hallway and his conundrum was at the end of the hall and yet, it was not there. The exit led to another hallway, whose proximity was he.
More amazed, than confused he took that exit that led to him. As he got closer to his true self, the self outside of the hallway, that self too ran toward the exit of the hallway towards a more true self, and this went on, infinitely. He stopped, turned around and stared. He looked down, he looked upon himself, and he lifted his hands toward his face and stared with awe. He pinched himself, he clicked his shoes together three times and lastly he tried to defy gravity. He was not dreaming, he was not in another dimension and he was not superhuman; it was real, it was his reality.
He sat down and pondered. He jumped from subject to subject: he thought about life, he thought about love, he thought about the world. He solved or actually, reached a conclusion for all of the sporadic subjects that came to mind while ignoring the pressing issue at hand. He wanted to feel at ease, he wanted his world to make sense because it was falling apart. He was holding on to the thoughts that held him together. He was trying to desperately survive the harsh world. He thought that by analyzing their habits, their way of life he would be able to dodge any vice thrown his way.
He thought, or to be more accurate he felt that by allowing himself to be less human he could in turn be more humane. The number of facades and fake smiles that made his life an ease served as a constant reminder that it was easier being detached. Looking down (in every sense of the word) on people without an emotional bond allowed him to reach a fair conclusion. It allowed him to systematically find the correct answer, the answer that proved to be more beneficent for more people in a realistic manner.
But that didn't matter now, because everything was falling apart. All the still frames of the random strangers that he could see through in an instant were getting darkened. They began to move. The people in the frames started climbing out of their places and walking out of the hallway. He looked around the empty room with no pictures to mask the reality. His art, his thoughts, his masterpiece, it was all gone and it got him nowhere. He stood in the middle of society and felt inadequate.
He followed society towards the exit of the hallway that no longer led to another hallway but to a bright light. They all stopped and he found himself in a painting. With a stroke, the artist erased person by person, until only he was left. Whoosh. His legs were gone. He could not move anymore. Whoosh. His arms were gone. He could not grasp anymore. He was losing himself more and more into the painting. He was disappearing in his consciousness, he was ceasing to exist. Whoosh. His body was gone. Whoosh. His mouth went too. He held in his tears, he was still allowed some control. He stared out of the painting. In front of him was another painting. This painting was pitch black. He focused on that painting and saw a point of light in the center.
Whoosh. With that last stroke he was gone. It was then that he realized the parameters of reality. Although he has ceased to exist as mankind defined it, he was still there. He saw reality in a different perspective now; it no longer ruled him. Reality is malleable; it can be conquered, stepped upon and brought down by its heels.
He stepped out of the painting, all feet and hands intact. He broke Reality's brush and stepped into the black abyss. There he walked deeper and deeper, getting closer to the light. He reached the object that was emitting light.
How it got there, he did not know. What it was, he wasn't quite sure. Why it was there, he didn't have the slightest idea. When it got there, only Time knew. Where it came from, was the least of his worries. Asking questions, adding to the ambiguity, and attempting on creating something tangible to his mind did not help reach the truth so he reached out and grabbed the bright object. The essence immediately took part of him and became one in an instant.
He was finally one, he was no longer lost. That essence was in him all along, all he had to do is be willing to look into darkness to find light. He stepped out of the frame and found himself in the hallway once more. All the paintings were back and everything was back to normal. He looked around and with a simple "goodbye," he parted ways. The hallway was just a stepping-stone, a stepping-stone he had to take.

His voice was never heard resonating from wall to wall; he was now alive.