Have you ever seen A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte? The one in the park with all those fancy pants aristocrats. You know what I'm talking about, with the green grass and blue pond and the dulled dressed. The one where everyone's kind of looking at something else. You know what I mean, don't you? The one from "Ferris Bueller's Day Off".

Oh so now you get it. I see who the real artist is. No no, no need to ponder up some grand delusion of anything like that, I get it. Art isn't your thing. No worries. We all gotta be stupid at something. That's what makes us smart. If everyone were good at everything, nobody would be good at nothing.

Anyways, back to the picture. Have you ever noticed, while staring at that cold, ominous mural, that no one is actually looking at much of anything? I mean, think about it. You got the lady in the man in the forefront looking at the pond, kids looking at rocks, and basically everybody else looking at something else. But no one is much looking at anything, really. It's like they all exist in their own little bubble of aristocracy. That is, except for the little girl.

What? You've never seen the little girl? Well I'll be. Are you sure? Little girl, white dress, right in the middle of the picture, holding hands with some grump of a woman. You really don't know what I'm talking about? Really? Well go look at it again. No, seriously, go look. I can wait.

Did you see it? I mean, did you really see it. None of that google shit or any of that stuff. I mean, did you see it with your own eyes, the real thing, right in Chicago? I don't care if it's "so far away"! Man up! Get in your car, plane, or whatever, and get over there! Now.

Okay, so you've seen it. What did you think? Did you like it? Hate it? Think it was dull? Overrated? Misconstrued? Well, it doesn't matter, as long as you saw the girl. You did see the girl, right? I'm sure you did. You couldn't of missed her. She was literally as middle as middle gets. Middle,of the page, middle of the ground, middle of everything, actually. It's almost like the artist meant to do that.

And what was that girl doing? Come on, think about it. Really think about it. You saw her just as well as I did. What was she doing? Yes, that's right, looking. And isn't that interesting. In a world where everyone is lost, it is a little girl that takes notice of the absurdity. Not a genius or mathematician or anything like that, but little kid. A know nothing snot mouthed nobody. And she's the one that knows.

The one that knows the truth. The one that realizes the great fallacy that is aristocracy. The one that can see through the painting. The one that can see the painting at all. The only one that can see. Of course, that's just a painting. What does that have to do with you or me? We're people. We're real. We do things. Say things. We have freedom of will.

Sort of.

But maybe not. Maybe someone's trying to say something. Maybe the artist is trying to say something. No, not that. The artist is just a painter, he doesn't know much of anything. But the girl is saying something, I know she is. Sure, her lips are taught and her mind is still, but she is saying something. Something, something, important.

Maybe she's saying what we're all thinking. Or maybe, it's all what we want to think, but we're too afraid to say. Maybe that's what makes children so lovable: their indefensible bluntness. No reasoning, no logic, no courtesy, just, just, well, truth. Isn't that a quirky opposition.

And wouldn't it be wonderful to wander across a wilderness so rare? A place where people say what they think and think what they say. A world where truth is a fact, and not an opinion. A world where bluntness is a courtesy, and subtlety is a sin. Wouldn't that be different?

But I suppose I'm just a silly dreamer. Just a spasmodic maniac with a riled thin conscious. Just a man without a mission. A being without a purpose. I guess that's why I really noticed the girl. Not that I'm smart or know anything about art or anything like that. No, I'm just a simple, dim witted farm boy from the middle of nowhere who don't know nothing about anything. I guess that's what really draw me to the girl.

No, not some perverted sense of knowledge or some keen sense of understanding or anything like that, just, just, well, just instinct, I suppose. We're drawn to what we don't know, and it's the real smarties who decide to ask. So I asked. And what did she say? Well, that's a story for another day.

Then again, that story should would be a lot more interesting than this, that is, if you can even call this a story. I sure wouldn't. But I guess no one ever calls their own story a story. Some kind of cognitive bias or some big word like that. I don't know, I've never written much of a story before. Never even told one. I don't got any good ones. Just my dull old boring life, and that's not much of anything.

I bet that girl has a story. A real story. A good story. I bet that's what she really knows. It's not what she said, but, but, well, you could tell, she knows a lot of stuff about a lot of things. And we know all that kind of stuff, it kinda makes you wander, what don't people like that know?

I don't know. It's hard to say what you can never think. And that girl already think a hell of a lot more than me. But that's okay. Some of us just weren't meant for the thinking. I still wonder though, about what the girl said and all. I wonder if it meant anything. I mean, the letters made words and the words made sentences at all, but I couldn't make much of anything. You know what I mean?

Have you ever started reading and just thought, what the hell is English? Like we speak it and talk it and all, but think about it. All it is is a bunch of letters thrown together with random spaces, and we're spose to take meaning out of that? Just a bunch of random scripture? I don't think so. It all just seems so odd to me. That's what talking to the girl was like. A lot was mentioned, but nothing was really said.

Or, rather, a lot was said, but nothing at all was heard. I guess that's my own fault, being a stupid dim wit and all. That's what my mother used to call me. She was never fond of the stupidest, and I was certainly the king of em.

Oh well, I'll get over it. I just, well, I just wonder. I wish someone else could explain to me what she said. Or rather, what she meant by what she said. But you smart folks will never know much of anything, will you? Not as long as your reading some numb nut like me.

I just wish someone was there. I wish someone other than me heard it. I mean, why did I have to hear it anyways? Me, out of all people? She could've told anybody! But no! She had to tell the dumbest dimwit this side of the Mississippi! Damn little girl! What does she know, anyways?