The Idiot

He went about tapping and rapping.  The little hammer became part of his hand, the one that wasn’t there, amputated to save his life. He could stretch his missing hand and phantom fingers, but they weren’t there.  Now he was wondering what else wasn’t there.  He wondered about the wind, how it seemed to caress his skin, and he knew it too wasn’t there.  He wondered about his other hand, but decided not to take the chance. He tapped on doors and trees and tables and chairs and, sure enough, they weren’t there at all, for they all seemed the same.  He wondered about colors, especially the orange of oranges and the blue of the sky and rainbows.  None of them were there at all.  One day he broke a window with his tapping but nothing changed, so he put down his hammer and decided to live sensibly like everyone else and prepare to die.