Walking along

I find myself taking off my short as I walk down the pavement. It's a mechanical action that I don't quite understand. It's hot for a second; cold again. People look at me, seemingly disapproving of my pants now being pulled down under my legs. Before I know it, I'm crossing the road, gathering giggles from some, frowns from others.

I pass by a mirror. The greying beard and hair and stained teeth seem to seem too distant. It is as if I am supposed to know this man though I cannot register why.

This feels like an Aldous Huxley book coming to life. But I go on, gathering more onlookers. I look down to see bodily parts I don't believe are on my body. There is no life, no colour. I walk on.

The police come and stop me and someone asks me my name. I do not answer. They look for identification of some sort. There are none. My torn pants are another road and I am far away from home. Do I have a home? What is a home?

You've probably seen me before and wished you had unseen me. I'm the naked old man who lost his way. My mind has a mind of its own. And nobody's trying to fix me.