PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It’s 7:30 AM at high school and everyone you know is just being one more participant of this intriguing daily phenomenon: the zombie march. Everybody has just left his or her bed and is probably only coming to school due to some kind of inertia. Different types of individuals can be observed and classified according to the urban sub-culture that they seem to belong: there’s the football player, there’s the cheerleader, there’s the nerd, there’s the geek, there’s the punk, there’s the metal-head. But there is also the one and only guy who seems not to fit on any of these classifications, and whose name is not known by any of the students: Mr. Briefcase. No, he’s not a briefcase per se, or… is he? You’ll never know what he’s carrying on this forever-in-hand object. This peculiar individual, rare in his species, has a personality that oscillates in flirting between the nerd stereotype, the geek one and the punk one. His rebel is a yet more rebellious; he stands out by not standing out, in the dawn of life called adolescence. His negligence to be a hormone creature and instead recreate a premature man, ironically describes the subversive nature of the adolescent human being. Where everyone’s ravenous for sexual accomplishment and recognition, he’s not even part of the equation. Where everyone’s a bitch, a jerk, lovely or lonely, his epithet’s an object he has turned his self into. We may think that we are the ones excluding him because of his peculiarity, but the reality is that he’s excluding himself from a bunch of morons and high school lambs. Talking only with teachers: adults, he’s in a social limbo, he will never adjust to the teenage hood, yet, and at least for a couple of years, he’s not an adult. Not being able to fit into two out of four of the mayor classifications of the human lifetime, he decided to become a briefcase: squared, practical, logical, technological, eclectic, ageless, faceless, wordless but not worthless and brown. A briefcase is a rectangular case with a handle for carrying books and documents (wordreference), or a parasite monster that eats our soul and zombifies you remora style. Maybe if you ask him for the time his response will come from the below his hand. Quiet whispers, or loud angry words of social discomfort. Yesterday I talked to Mr. Briefcase… Don’t know anything about him.