The Professor

I am in the library right now, and, at this point, am thoroughly convinced that I have a late onset of ADD. I can't focus! This lack of ability to concentrate has sent my eyes wandering and my mind meandering. The is when I spotted him. Again.
I usually study at the bottom of the library in the Social Science department. I tend to migrate towards the back of the large room in order to deal with my recently self-diagnosed disorder. The first time I came down here, there was an older man, maybe 60 years old, sitting at a table nearby. He had books crazily spread out around him, stacks of notebooks piled up in front of him, and a piece of paper upon which he was frantically writing, his body swaying slightly with each stroke of the pen. Upon first sight, I assumed he was a professor doing research. As my study session went on, I began hearing a voice. Looking around, no one new had joined us. It was still just the man and myself. I quickly realized that he was talking to himself as he wrote, muttering things under his breath has he almost violently engraved his thoughts into his notebook (and probably the desk as well.) I began to watch him, trying not to make it obvious, but completely engrossed by the behavior of who I thought was a professor. Throughout the whole two hours we were nearby each other, he continued to write just as feverishly as when I arrived. I so badly wanted to see what he was writing, but I restrained myself. After about two hours, he abruptly stood up, put on his coat, picked up his books, and walked away, muttering to himself and moving with a slight twitch. I was intrigued.

Now here I am again. In the library. Bottom floor. Back of the room. And I find myself with my friend again. This time, as I observe him with an increased curiosity, I notice that he is not writing with any ordianry pen. In front of him sits a bottle of ink. He is writing with a quill pin! After each feverish session of writing he stops to dip his pen into the ink, and then begins again. Like clockwork. At one point, he stopped longer, stood up, yelled at the kid at the table next to him to watch his stuff (demanded, not asked), abruptly left for what I assummed to be a bathroom break, and then returned to resume his work. I couldn't help but compare him to Russel Crowe's character in "A Beautiful Mind." In the story, one of my favorites ever, the professor is insanely intelligent, but suffers from Schitzophrenia. Throughout the movie, he spends moments in the library frantically working out mathematical equations as students sit around and watch in awe, all the while he muttering to himself and is completely absorbed in his own little world, a world so beyond our own that not one of us can even begin to comprehend it.

Is this man, the man in the blue who writes with a quill pen, a beautiful mind, as well? What is he writing? What is he thinking? What makes him work with such passion and such intensity? When he went to bathroom I almost walked by his table to steal a glance at the materials he was using, but again, I restrained myself. These questions will continue to poke me with their need to be answered. The man will continue to intrigue me. Mystery will continue to enshroud him as he hides behind his stacks of books and his heaps of notebooks. If the day ever comes when I find out his name and his purpose, I shall be at peace. Until then, I will continue to observe him and his interesting behaviors. And I shall call him The Professor. Updates shall surely follow.