Street Philosopher
by: Haresh Daswani

As words would fly through the surrounding area of the reader, converting walls to windows viewing busy urban streets a fictional table appears below the book with a checkered tabletop that of a French café. That to which nothing has been real all throughout, but the senses does see it clearly, and the noise of all the world’s story revolves throughout the establishment. The scent of African brewed coffee beans hints the renowned reputation of the place.
With nothing but a view of the book, and that of a café, conversations across different tables seem to matter. A man with his watch stares at both the time on his watch and that of a clock, holding his phone in a rushed conversation whilst taking the affection poured on his coffee for granted. Yet, nothing less of its kind would ever compromise. Time has its very essence, making it most efficient to meet his purpose, or so he believes in, the purpose of what he believes he existed for, and for whatever that would be, he doesn’t seem to have time for the rest of the world of things his purpose might have been for.
But in his virtue of dedication he is willing to forsake tact to the world as he this would in dire need for a client of another vernacular. Building a bridge with instructions not understood does take time, but not impossible.
And while his interesting persistence on time, efficiency, and purpose, the vacant seat that was not noticed moments ago in front of the table is now being occupied by that of a man. A patient being who looks at the book with no curiosity but expectation of its existence, with eyes the color left to the discretion of the reader. This man’s age is subjective, as with the color of his skin, his beard, and his vernacular.
But in which point the appearance does not matter, should not matter, as it is all within the choice of the reader to describe him. All he does is stare, and smile, leaving the reader to put down the book and look up.
But to which the reader could not, for by putting the book down, the being disappears. As he is only visible while the reader reads. And that is if the reader chooses to see him through the book.
And so he sits patiently, in him exists all the answers ever to be asked. While staring at the book, sitting patiently, his purpose, maintenance of the universe, is being taken care of. And yet he keeps silent, smiling at everything with the calm of a retired man who feels he has done his purpose, and takes it day by day.
And so, as expected, the last paragraph is now being read, and the chair is vacant again, in fact, there is no chair. The words now take images along with them, away it goes with the windows displaying the busy streets, the checkered tabletop, and the African Coffee Beans.