Everyday,
he dons his camouflage to hide himself from the rest of the world
so he can go about his life unnoticed, a shadow among shadows.
He has become the proverbial drop in the bucket or the grain of sand on the beach,
indistinguishable from those that stand beside him
and he wonders, how many others wonder what he wonders and share his own thoughts?

His inner clock goes off sometime before dawn,
He rises, boils himself some coffee and takes a peek out the window.
The streets are still deserted save the early riser who drives up his street like clockwork
At the same bat time on the same bat station
A thin layer of frost covers the cars parked on the street
and the dew covered blades of glass shimmer like diamonds under the streetlight

He gazes out the window and ponders to himself about what the day might bring.
Or is it just going to be another day in an army of days
marching towards who knows what?
He hopes today will be different than yesterday
And the day before that, and the day before that.
and he wonders, how many others wonder what he wonders and share his own thoughts?

He sips his coffee and turns on the television
and hears a different version of what has become the same theme
and as the pundits theorize and opine on the crises du jour
a wave of disgust washes over him and he thinks to himself,
“Not again, not today, today was supposed to be different.”
and he wonders, how many others wonder what he wonders and share his own thoughts?

He decides that monotony, despite its very definition
is most certainly a killer and he has become a slave to it.
He thinks to himself that maybe he will wear a different color today.
Something to make himself stand apart from the other shadows lurking in the shadows,
those other drops in the bucket and those grains of sand on the beach
and he wonders, how many others will do what he is about to do and act on their own thoughts.

And out the door he goes,
A myriad of one…

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