The Stalking Man

The man is always walking, in fact, he is stalking.

Somewhere, to some destination it is not apparent – it is not of any interest for him to go from one point to another as a means to an end. The route is unplanned, and the man often gets lost. But this is the way in which he wants things to unfold, that is his intention, and this is his sordid fantasy.

This is the stalking man.

On a still autumn evening the air is crisp, and when the lungs are filled with fresh oxygen the taste and smell of damp leaves is overwhelming, but pleasant and calming at the same time. The rush hour has kicked in and many vehicles can be heard either revving their engines or screeching their tyres, and the occasional added percussions of horns and incensed human voices are heard bellowing across the air to not far away – to much quieter areas of escape – to areas of relaxation and complete harmony.

Areas such as a wooded park.

And this is where we find out stalking man; sat resolutely still on a green bench, breathing slowly, savouring each breathe, breathe after breathe he inhales, exhales. Experiencing the luscious autumnal freshness the fallen leaves have awarded his rich, powerful lungs. His eyes are closed, and have been for some time, his mind somewhere else; thinking, dreaming; picturing something that he has so many times recreated but only once seen in true form, in real life; the image, silhouette and complete embodiment of one’s opposite, one’s own devil in disguise.

The double which exists within all of us, and the stalking man has seen himself in a terrifying reflection of unfortunate sadistic, malignant narcissism.

The man stalks himself!