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There he stood, talking to no one in particular. A disheveled looking man in a too large blue shirt with unknown stains upon it and jeans that if takenoff, could easily continue to stand on their own. Oddly though, his brightly colored sneakers were exceptionally well kept. He stood on the corner, continuouslytalking, never waiting for a reply. His eyes grew wide as he held out his handson either side of his face, almost as if he were framing what he was about to s

ay. And thats why I never wash my jeans!

To this some people would reply, Not even if you spill salsa or some barbecue sauce on them? Not even then?

But no one cared enough to ask the man his opinion. People walked by, looking around at each other as if to say, Who is he talking to? Not me is it? A fewindividuals waited for the bus, looking at the man, then down the street, willi

ng the bus to get there quicker, or wishing they could somehow move the stop tothe next corner to avoid the buried guilt of ignoring a fellow human being.

The man patted his pockets and looked around. Who has my pen? It was blue. A blue ballpoint pen. The only one Ill write with. I need to make a shopping list. Theres a new recipe I want to try out. Its a delicious pot pie.

No one really believed this man knew how to cook, much less owned an oven capable of creating such a lovely meal. The man was growing desperate. The more he talked the less they listened. The less they listened the angrier he became

. Finally, seemingly reaching his capacity for being ignored, he took a deep breath and stepped directly into the path of a cyclist riding down the street. HEY!Hey you! Gimme my pen!

Tires screeched as the cyclist gripped the brakes tightly, stopping justshort of hitting the man. The man stood there,4 unfazed despite nearly being ra

mmed by unforgiving metal and a cyclist in very tight shorts. The cyclist let his breath out, relieved he had avoided a collision. He put his feet to the ground, but left his helmet on for safety. He looked up at the man. Yes? Can I help youwith something?

The man was taken aback by the fact that another human had suddenly recognized his existence. He scratched his head and looked around, confused by the s

ituation. Uuuuhm The man mumbled something incoherent to even dogs and other largeeared creatures.

The cyclist continued to be ever so polite. Can I help you sir?

Have you seen my pen!? Its a ballpoint. A blue one.

Without hesitating the cyclist took off his messenger bag and reached inside. Do you mean this one? He pulled out a beautiful new blue ballpoint pen.

The mans eyes lit up. My pen! How did you? Where? But

The cyclist held the pen out graciously. Here you go.

The man grabbed the pen and quickly stuck it in his pocket. Again he mumbled something. One would hope the words thank you were contained somewhere in his reply.

The cyclist looked kindly into the mans eyes. Now dont you go losing that pen again. Never let it out of your sight. That is a mighty nice pen indeed. Is there anything else I can help you with? A crowd was now forming around the man and the cyclist, for people were not used to such well spoken kindness on the citystreets.

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The man grinned and shook his head up and down. Some paper. I need some paper too.

Of course! A pen isnt much use without something to write on.

The cyclist reached back into his bag and pulled out a pad of paper. Atthis point the crowd was getting to be quite large. It was becoming some sort ofstreet show. One entrepreneurial young man was even walking around with an openhat, taking donations. The cyclist gave the man the pad of paper. Now you have a

ll the tools you need. The possibilities are endless. You could write a story, apoem, a letter, a book! Draw a bird, a tree, a building, the universe.

The mans eyes looked down at the ground as he dejectedly rubbed his shoeson the pavement. But I dont know how to do any of those things.

The cyclist smiled. Yes you do. Everyone can write, everyone candraw. Dont worry about whether its good or not, just write what you want to, drawwhat your heart tells you and then share it with the world so they can enjoy thebeauty that is within you. Simply close your eyes and let your imagination run

wild. Whatever comes to your mind first, go with it. Let your ideas inspire you.Let them be transported from the dreams of your mind to the reality of the pape

r. For the gift of creativity is a gift most rare and special, not to be taken for granted.

A few people in the crowd were now convinced that this was some form ofstreet theatre for no one talked like that in real life. Surely this conversation was scripted.

The man opened the notebook and flipped through the fresh, clean pages. Imma just make a shopping list.

This got a huge laugh from the crowd. What comedic timing this man had!Many were certain that he must be an actor of some kind. A few people even had their phones out, searching the internet for the identity of this man on the street.

Laughing, the cyclist replied, You do whatever you want to. Just hold that pen close and make sure to keep track of it!

The man, happy to have his pen and a new pad of paper, graciously stepped aside from in front of the cyclist. The crowd made a path as the cyclist slunghis bag onto his back and rode down the street. Looking around, the man noticedfor the first time all those who had gathered, watching his every move. He was

perplexed, scared, and amazed all at once. His mind was quite overwhelmed as hestood there, his eyes slowly moving from one onlooker to the next.

He pointed at a man wearing a blue baseball cap. Wheres the grocery store!? I need a ride! Anyone got some bus fare for me!?

No one answered. Instead they all began to go their separate ways, acting as if ignoring this man was again an acceptable thing to do. On and on he went. Talking and yelling, whispering and questioning. And no one listened. Everyoneheard, but no one listened.