He could do nothing but smile. Smile at the things that went wrong, smile at the things that fought him, tried to ruin him and everything he believed in. He smiled, knowing that the mere ability to smile was enough for him, even after his voice failed, his skin wrinkled, and the sounds of the world could no longer be heard. He could still smile, and he would, for he knew the truth. He knew that no matter what transpired, his happiness remained, steady as his hands, and he smiled. He smiled for he saw the truth. He saw through these fleeting struggles for happiness, these meaningless vicissitudes of fate, these unheard yet eventually purposeless cries for help, and he smiled. He was asked once why he smiled, why he was so glacial, shutting himself out, and he said, I cannot help but be an outsider, for I have seen it. I have seen that which separates me and you, and that which keeps life, alive. I smile, not because I am frigid, but because I am not. I look, and I see. I listen, and I hear. I know what has transpired and what will, yet I smile and no one knows why I do. I am deprived of solitude but I am not afforded company, and I am at once as lonely as a man can be, and as accompanied.
So he smiled.
