He had one arm.
His shirt sleeve flapped lightly in the wind as he sat there scribbling gibberish on a lonley sheet of crumpled white computer paper. His handwriting looked haphazard and fantastical. Perhaps he was a genius. Perhaps he was homeless. Perhaps he simply was once right-handed and now had to scrawl with his left hand due to whatever took away his right.
He looked sad. And alone.
He looked very much alone in this world.
And as I walked past the outdoor cafe seating, watching this old man shift uncertainly in his chair on the side of the street, I felt for him very deeply. His weathered face told a story I desperately wanted to know. His eyes were shiny and for a moment I saw his life flash before my eyes. I saw this white-haired man as a son and then a husband and then a father, I saw one white hot crisp moment that changed his life, and then I saw him lose it all....his family, his name, his honor.
He traveled the world. He wrote stories. He found literature. He found drugs. He talked to strangers. He talked to himself.
He existed in the tropics and rode horses.
He saw war. He saw death. He reminisced. He missed his wife, he missed his children.
He had no choice but to imagine a new reality for himself.
Our eyes met for a chance moment and I looked down, continuing on my way, feeling as though I had oddly trespassed or seen too much.
He kept on writing. His face was a still marvel of expression.
For better or worse, maybe this was just a crazy man scribbling on a sheet of paper.
And yet, I felt myself silently hoping that at one point in this old man's life, he had ridden wild horses in the tropics.
I smiled. And then I walked away.
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