Writings

Wobbling and limping along an empty street, scuffing his feet and casting piercingly suspicious glances in all directions imaginable, he was as impenetrable in his character, repealing in his appearance and wayward in his moves as an old charred and gnarly oak, battered by weather and time. He was keeping firm to his way, shuffling along without much diversion, but there was a sense of utter perturbation and deep-set anxiety around him. Although he seemed hostile though not far from the ordinary he had a thunderstorm around him, or that is what a dweller occasionally peering through a window of one the too ordinary houses into the late evening would feel.

In broad daylight no one would have noticed him, him who would have easily blended into the undefined crowds flowing through thestreet with grim faces, laughing frantically or with relish, yet definitely moving along – not forward – and not caring much about anything outside. Private universes. But here in this quiet drive the man radiated a gloom. His person. Human feelings becoming visible in the calm of night, with time to think and no one to see. The man was clearly wallowing in his thoughts, tossing and turning, maybe writhing with pain without showing. Only once he shook his head violently and a shiver traversed his whole lean body. A weight seemed to have fallen on the street, though unnoticed or almost, people in their homes trying to create a feeling of cosiness in their working lives, with home and family. Existences.

By now, the man had reached the end of the street. No way out but back. He seemed to hesitate. A dim and feebly trembling light was gleaming in one of the windows on the second floor. Unattainable it seemed, or maybe so were the feelings of the man. Distinction is hard to draw after so much time or space from then and there. No one approached the window; all of a sudden the whole street seemed to have gone dead. The world. The man din’t seem to care. After a brief glance above him he remained standing, his sight set into indefinite space.

All of a sudden a wind came up and tore at the man’s robes, entangling his hair, hurtling leaves and debris through the air. The gust of wind released him, then tore through the night with renewed force. Then man remained standing. He might have flinched, might have cursed the wind, the night and everything in it; but after indefinite moments he remained standing as before. Maybe changed inside, unperturbed by the adversities of nature; I can clearly remember him smiling though it was almost pitch dark. Time had clearly passed and the night progressed. Yet – maybe it’s just my imagination. He retrieved a piece of paper from his pocket, big enough to hold a message, a life story, or nothing at all. With grace and personal solemnity he tore it apart and cast it to the wind. Another gust, then silence. He walked a few steps back without turning, with closed eyes, as it seemed to me. Then, upon slowly turning on the spot, he started retracing his steps out of the alley.

Now a dreamy state had enveloped him, his peaceful smile just briefly flashed in the moonlight. The moon disappeared behind a curtain of greyish black smoke, not to return that night. This seemed like the end of it. Taken aback, I closed my eyes; I might have closed my mind and remained looking, but this amounts to the same. It wasn’t a dream I thought. Looking again I wasn’t sure. The street was empty. A life had been mended and one left behind. The importance of those moments I can’t judge. All I can say now is this: All this happened a long time ago. I was the man and the street is still there. Whether it was really night I don’t know. I haven’t been there since, having moved away right away, but I heard it is as ordinary as before. Empty at times for those who go for a gust of wind, a lift swept blank. A beginning.