He lived alone; and in the eyes of others he was
nothing more than a simpleton recluse. His straggly beard hung heavy from his
face, forcing his eyes to droop and his head to sway low as he moved, like a
pendulum swinging from a Grandfather Clock.
Children who passed him wondered what lived within
his hive of hair; knots seemed to move as he spoke and a host of illegal
immigrants enjoyed their luxurious free ride within his matted beard.
He was the type of person who most would refuse to acknowledge;
busy suited passers-by would hasten their steps as they neared him, eager to
snap away at their frozen shop-bought sandwiches and unwilling to pay attention
to the crumbling reality around them.
The high street at lunchtime is not the place of
dreams; it is a curious mixture of anger and hollowness which even the warmth of
the sun cannot penetrate. Everyone looks down, their thoughts slumped to the
grey pavement; yet, when his figure pinches at the consciousness, heads creak
upwards, in some sort of choreographed dance.
He knew all of this.
The silent seller of the homeless magazine watched
these prisoners traipse passed every day; in and out of his life like insects
darting through the air. If only they could understand which one was truly in
the straight-jacket.
For the man sitting in the sun in the doorway of an
abandoned British Home Stores was in fact a hero; a knight in shining armour.
You would be mistaken for taking him in as someone who has failed, yet, the
truth is, that every day he succeeds.
Because in his world a long and weary battle is
being waged between his two opposing forces. Good and evil would simplify it; a
fierce and unwanted theatre of war engages daily as two sides try to gain
control of the realm. Every day this man wakes to a threat, he gathers himself
together and launches himself into battle; riding on his brave steed and fixing
his glare onto the immediate threat ahead of him. The unruly enemy tries every
trick, uses every device for its own gain.
This man has been tortured, beaten; sent screaming
mad…shrouded in loneliness.
Yet he survives.
A million people have passed him in the street
without a glance, yet, sometimes there is one who takes a look at him.
Sometimes a small set of eyes will gaze into his
brilliant blue and see the true colour of life swirling in his pupils. Pain
dances inside him; duelling with missed chances and negative responses. As his
failings formed railings around his life, so the man shut up the shop and
paused before taking a leap.
Until, the man leapt no more.
And what would he say to the masses of imprisoned
drones who masquerade as free? He would remind them that the real prison is the
one you create around yourself, and that the only way to escape is by removing
your armour and striding forward.
In
his eyes, risk dances with fate; in his eyes love dances with fear; in his eyes
patience dances with hate…
…and if you stop to look at the bedraggled man
risking his all for one more day, if you gaze into his eyes for one moment…
that
is what you will see.
Zac Thraves is a writer and performer from Kent, UK.
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