And yet, he often comes and tries to pull me by the hand as he trots along, coaxing me to follow, a believer or not. He's very persistent and very loyal to his cause - and that is validation above all else.
He shuffles along, trying to prove himself to me, desperate almost.
A traveling salesman, a bazaar vendor, a religious zealot, blinded - intent on my conversion, on my purchasing his wares, wanting more than anything to sell me something that is impossible to be bought. He wants from me what I cannot give.
I'm urged to look around, to admire his handiwork:
The way friends and family move away, learn, and wrinkle.
The receding hairline I see in the mirror.
The seasons and how they come and go.
"All me!" - he says.
He hands me his pamphlet, something personal to see:
23 minutes since I last laughed out loud.
4 hours since I last heard that song.
7 months since my last kiss -
6 years since I walked away.
"Convincing," I say. "It seems to be so."
I consider what I'm shown and my eyes linger on his pages.
But always, I give it back.
I always fold it over and I always give it back.
I don't believe in him.
I don't believe in Time -
But I see how easily one could be fooled.
I know firsthand how one could be tempted.
He relentlessly sneaks up on you when you're tired and least expect it.
He makes it look good - his genius, his moving sidewalk.