Replica of The Thinker

By the doorstep of The Museum, the Duplicate is frustrated. Like the offspring of a rock star, no matter what he does, it’s never enough. He only wants to think dignified thoughts, important thoughts, thoughts that will imprint like an artist’s signature on the memory of mankind. But it’s difficult, because when he thinks, his head is filled with iron and bronze, not neurons and God.

I too, feel like that. You know how it works when you make a photocopy of a photocopy? The original fights to be seen but appears blurred in each new version. Each morning, I sit at the kitchen table the way my father must’ve years ago. I’ve got my oatmeal and coffee, my newspaper and blank stare. The Replica

digs his right elbow into his left thigh, his chin into his right fist, and then he thinks as hard as his maker will allow. He tries to envision patterns among celestial bodies, the mysteries of Christ, X + Y, crossword puzzles, free will. The expression on his face: somewhere between agony and falling asleep.

Yet he holds this pose as if no one will notice what frauds we are, as if some world around him is about to make sense, some answer has almost arrived. Almost.