The Missed Irony of His Imagined Importance
A sharp wit, A fine tuned sense of humor. You couldn’t get a thing by him on good days. A profound sense of irony and clever in all sorts of amazingly bright things. Puns and puzzles, intricate word games and poetry, clever in forming prose.
Always a comeback on the tip of his tongue, if needed a sharp retort. Admired for his skill, his higher humor, as they sometimes teased him, and his remarkable intellect.
He basked in their admiration. Glowed as they gathered around after a simple, well-timed remark, that without effort, drew the conversation to his corner. It made him feel important. Vital. They could not be what they were without his response. Ill defined he thought, without his presence. He aspired to be, and often felt himself, the center of an educated milieu. Subtle and understated, he dreamed, in his leadership and presence.
On bad days, he felt blended in the background, unable to get a word in edgewise. Nobody listened as they talked and laughed around him, occasionally saying something he said, a mere moment earlier, but no one acknowledged. No amount of cleverness and suave charm turned their focus once again on him. His feelings turned to dark thoughts of moving towards, and slipping over, the precipice of anonymity. Unnoticed, and from there, he believed, soon forgotten
It is most assuredly urgent desperation, an overwhelming need of notice before he fell, that drove him to vulgar antics, base, clownish and commonplace, so unlike him. So awkward in their demand,
“Hey look at me!” shouted so loudly he could not hear the voice of his own reason telling him no one recognized him as this garish example, rendering him, not as he imagined himself, the epicenter of their world, but invisible. That which he most feared to be. So blinded by the ridiculous, he couldn’t see the irony of his own unfulfilled dreams.