Papa wanders around. He looks bewildered by the flashing traffic lights, and the growling sounds that a car makes as it zooms past, splattering the poor old man with the rivulets of the downpour. He smiles up to the sky, bits of rainwater splashing into his blue, glassy eyes. He raised his thin arms to catch each teardrop, his laugh erupts from his chest, and closing his eyes, he fades away into the cold gray stones of the pavement, his laughter bringing him away from his pains.
Obtruding from his fingerless gloves were scrawny, gaunt knuckles, sore and calloused from blows. His skinny frame was draped over by layers of soft linen and a hunk of thick wool coat. His scraggly white hair ran down his face, over his knobby shoulders, clumped and unwashed. His cheek bones protruded from his emaciated face, pronouncing his sunken in cheeks, and thin, cracked, ashen lips. His eyes however sparkled with child like interest at every little thing.
He walks into coffee shops, stares at the lazily spinning fan for an hour just to count how many blades there are. He stands on the asphalt road, listening to the crackle of the dried leaves as they crumbled beneath his feet. He strikes a match, and covers the orange flames in his cold hands, endures the burns and watch till the last of it dies away, before smiling with much amusement.
What is he?
“Insane,” most people would put it. “Hush. Leave that poor man alone,” some say, sympathy choking up their voices.
But what was is really?
Nothing anyone said affected him, nothing. He was happily unaware of the insults or looks that could kill that were thrown his way. He laughed simply because there was no reason not to. He sang praises of Gods and recited his favourite poems out loud. He lived the streets like it was his to keep. He danced around the lamp posts like a main actor in a musical. And was that so wrong? Was it wrong for him to do as he pleased?
He was blissfully happy to be in his own world, a pure, chaste, virtuous, unsullied emotion that wrapped him up like silk blankets, and held him dear. To him, his stale bread was like loaves fresh from the oven, layered with butter and soaked in honey. To him, a simple jacket was like warm wool, knitted perfectly to break the cold winds. To him, an effortless smile could light up his whole day, as much as how a joyful gurgle from a child could send him roaring into laughter, till tears swarm his vision. He was luminous in the darkness, solid when everything was lucid.
No one notices it because every day, everyone walks past Papa without looking back twice. They didn’t think of him, or of his insanity. They concentrate on their grief, troubles, problems, tribulations. They were busy making deals on the phone, arguing with their wives, their thoughts lingering on what they are missing out, all things they regret in life.
Do you think they are the ones who are truly happy?
No. Never.
You want to know who is?
There, that crazy old man at the sidewalk, his straggly hair blowing in the wind, his hands lifted to the rains, his mouth a silent prayer, a little twinkle in his blue, glassy eyes.
That's all true happiness can ever be.
Obtruding from his fingerless gloves were scrawny, gaunt knuckles, sore and calloused from blows. His skinny frame was draped over by layers of soft linen and a hunk of thick wool coat. His scraggly white hair ran down his face, over his knobby shoulders, clumped and unwashed. His cheek bones protruded from his emaciated face, pronouncing his sunken in cheeks, and thin, cracked, ashen lips. His eyes however sparkled with child like interest at every little thing.
He walks into coffee shops, stares at the lazily spinning fan for an hour just to count how many blades there are. He stands on the asphalt road, listening to the crackle of the dried leaves as they crumbled beneath his feet. He strikes a match, and covers the orange flames in his cold hands, endures the burns and watch till the last of it dies away, before smiling with much amusement.
What is he?
“Insane,” most people would put it. “Hush. Leave that poor man alone,” some say, sympathy choking up their voices.
But what was is really?
Nothing anyone said affected him, nothing. He was happily unaware of the insults or looks that could kill that were thrown his way. He laughed simply because there was no reason not to. He sang praises of Gods and recited his favourite poems out loud. He lived the streets like it was his to keep. He danced around the lamp posts like a main actor in a musical. And was that so wrong? Was it wrong for him to do as he pleased?
He was blissfully happy to be in his own world, a pure, chaste, virtuous, unsullied emotion that wrapped him up like silk blankets, and held him dear. To him, his stale bread was like loaves fresh from the oven, layered with butter and soaked in honey. To him, a simple jacket was like warm wool, knitted perfectly to break the cold winds. To him, an effortless smile could light up his whole day, as much as how a joyful gurgle from a child could send him roaring into laughter, till tears swarm his vision. He was luminous in the darkness, solid when everything was lucid.
No one notices it because every day, everyone walks past Papa without looking back twice. They didn’t think of him, or of his insanity. They concentrate on their grief, troubles, problems, tribulations. They were busy making deals on the phone, arguing with their wives, their thoughts lingering on what they are missing out, all things they regret in life.
Do you think they are the ones who are truly happy?
No. Never.
You want to know who is?
There, that crazy old man at the sidewalk, his straggly hair blowing in the wind, his hands lifted to the rains, his mouth a silent prayer, a little twinkle in his blue, glassy eyes.
That's all true happiness can ever be.
__________
I haven't written in a while. Forgive my stale choice of topic.
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