A Cripple

Sometimes the words don't flow, but you have to write them. Its not always so easy to say something, but there are times when you feel you have to say it. Finding the words aren't easy, especially when they're tinged with raw emotion. But we have to. Its in art that we life on. If no information is ever destroyed, then hopefully the emotions that we try to convey live on in the cosmos, that someone may learn something, gather something from them, and be more compassionate than we are.

Four years ago I saw a street cleaner. I sat next to him on a bench outside a Starbucks, each of us sipping on our coffees, in our own solitude. His appeared more permanent than mine. I didn't speak to him. He finished before I did; spoke to no one, got up and carried on with his work of picking garbage up off the streets. One of his legs was slightly bent and twisted, and he walked with a limp. Some part of that brought a lump to my throat. His solitude, his lonely coffee, his disability, his line of work. A multitude of factors immersed in each other, creating a heartbreaking picture of how sad life can be. More than the sadness, his perseverance despite his condition is what brought a lump to my throat. To see a man unable to walk properly, engaged in manual labour that required him to walk an entire road, and more. To spend the better part of his day on his feet, in his coloured overalls, collecting the rubbish that we didn't have the decency to throw in the dustbins. Walking a road filled with shops, and cars, and people; people engaged in conversations, busy with life, on phones, despite his solitude. It was poetic, almost like a punishment meted out to those that displeased the gods of ancient Greece, it was ironic. I'm not one for irony though.

A few days ago I saw him again, all this time later, a reminder that none of our lives change so much. His less than mine, but seeing him, and feeling those same feelings, perhaps not so much either. Four years on, and he's still there; with the same bright uniform, the same black skin, the same wrinkles in his face, and the same limp. Still walking down the road, picking up our garbage, consigned to a life of manual labour despite himself. Maybe he's happier than I am when I see him, than the emotions he evokes in me. Maybe, but still it makes me sad. That we are all required to toil and struggle, some with handicaps, and extra hurdles. I see in him the futility and repetition of life, the universal laws that govern us all. I see in him the weakness of all that we are, our disabilities, and our lonely walk through a life overflowing with people, all walking on the same road, about their lives in their own bubbles, ignorant to the existence of others. He makes me forget to ask whether the moon is still there when no one is looking. I see in him all humanity, which sounds rather grand and delusional, but I see so much in him and he breaks my heart.

Maybe he's God, or a god, or even a prophet. Now that would be poetic. Perhaps even and angel. Maybe I see him for a reason, when everyone else just seems to carry on. Not yet possessing the voice to speak to him; to reach out and not just be another life on the road. Another being. Perhaps he can be more than my mirror. Maybe I just don't know the prayer.