The Urban Sherpa - a blog by Christopher DeWan

(if ingested, induce vomiting...)

Read Work and Other Essays, a collection of nonfiction by Christopher DeWan.

The Man in My Eyes rating=2

When I close my eyes, there's a man talking to me. He's little, and if he's making sound, I can't hear it, but he sits on the inside of my eyelid, well-dressed, behind a desk, like a newscaster on a tiny television, reporting sternly and firmly on the passing of pressing events.

I don't know what he's saying but I know it's important.

He's not there every time I close my eyes—only intermittently, usually at the ends of long days. Sometimes he's changed his tie or he's wearing a different colored shirt. Even in a pink shirt he looks composed and urgent.

He's very small, and it's hard to make out the movement of his lips, but one word I think I can make out, because he uses it so often: "Help."

Lately, he's been cutting to other correspondents with greater and greater frequency. They're always on the scene of a terrible disaster—plane crash or hurricane or the death of an innocent child. When the correspondent finishes, they cut back to the original little man, but he always takes a moment of solemn stillness before his lips begin to move again, silent reading of an unknown almanac.

"Help," the little man is saying inside my eyes, and then maybe, after that (it's hard to tell) "yourself."