the collector

he lives in a run down one room apartment big enough for a fold out couch and a leaky bathroom on the corner of 2nd and main. the kind of place where the floors creak because they are tired of holding those that tread their backs, and the walls are simply held up by the infinite layers of paint applied by tenant after tenant. the kind of place the government slaps with a "condemned" sticker in order to build a new strip mall. it is there that he makes his home in between obscurity and madness. every night he falls asleep to the prayers of a single mother wasting away as she scrapes by to keep her five children from starvation, and the desperate cries of the heroin addict tossing back and forth in the violent terrors of another withdraw. and every morning he is awakened by the smell of cheap tobacco that drifts in through his open window, his signal to begin his quest again. he isn't looking for anything specific, just something special. he has no expectations just anticipation for what's to come. this is his profession. this is his calling. this is his passion. this is his life. he is a collector. call it abstract. call it childish. call in unrealistic. call it eccentric. call it a chemical imbalance. that's not what he would call it. to him this is all there is, and it's all that has ever truly mattered. with his eyes firmly fixed to the ground, he scours the ground for anything he can find a use for. nothing is too ruined for him. vestigial buttons covered by mud and soggy leaves that their owners saw no use in keeping. half torn and frayed shoe lace that had met a tragic end in a bicycle spoke. a shattered light bulb whose filament grew weary from burning so brightly. a crumpled love note clinging for dear life to the grate on the street while its ink and poetry spill down into the gutter below. misplaced nails that fell from the workman's belt, unsure of what they were ever meant for. the litter that we so eagerly discard he, just as zealously, finds a home for. he is the collector. restoring purpose to that which seemed to have none. giving meaning and value to the broken and worthless. content with his haul for the day he heads back to the disaster he proudly calls his home. as he comes to the corner of 2nd and main a smile spreads from ear to ear as he looks upon his neighborhood. the kind of place anyone else would wisely go out of their way to avoid for fear of crossing paths with the wrecking ball. but to him this is heaven. he opens the termite infested door and finds a safe place to keep his work until morning. tired and worn out he pulls out the slice of bread with the least amount of mold on it and settles down for the night. he lays his head down to rest and the familiar sound track plays over. a mother trusting that her pleas will travel all the way to heaven, unaware that her words have only a wall to traverse. and the empty groans of a junkie unaware that hope is closer than a fix.