There was nothing to anticipate. And perhaps that was the most daunting notion; that his life wouldn’t lead to anything; that he would spend the rest of his years waiting for nothing. That’s what he found himself thinking about much of the time. But people couldn't see that just by looking at him, of course. Yet, there were some that knew his inner thoughts and could anticipate for him, for they knew of his greatness and were eager to show him the wonder that is the future.
Twenty-two years. Twenty-two years he had lived and still he knew not why he lived except for the sake of time. Or was he living simply because he was born? He spent his younger years searching and somehow his search extended into his adulthood.
He was bright—not scholarly, per say, but intellectual and capable of great thought. It could be seen in his eyes. But when he looked into his own eyes, he couldn't see the spectacular world his mind kept hidden. He couldn't see the final product of his scattered thoughts and random dreams. Were they to be conglomerated into a meaning for his life? He did not know.
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