I stand face-to-face with the man in the middle of a city street. A street once corrupted by crowds, exhaust, and noise, now only chunks of concrete, broken glass, abandoned cars and storefronts and office buildings abide. The swirling trash and leaves mix with drab, crumbling buildings that stretch towards a darkening, ominous sky, the muted grays and browns a sad, silent testament to the once strong and vibrant life. And there, in the middle of that desolate, deserted street, where color reaches no more, I stand.
He is motionless, feet spread, arms dangling by his side. His hands, unclenched. His shoulders, rolled forward. His lips, flat, punctuated by commas. He stands 5’10”, same as me, but somehow he’s looking up, lifting his eyes to meet mine, his inner eyebrows raising, forming two distinctive depressions that divide his oversized forehead. His body displays neither tension nor fear, but rather forlorn quietude. A shell of a man.
Bending my knees to stare into his hollow, glassy eyes, I can just make out some vague plea for help, for mercy, swimming in the clear pools forming at the bottom. I’m searching his eyes, straining to understand. But there’s an emptiness to him, a poverty of life, a paucity of vitality. And in the moment, I feel powerless. Unable to answer his plea. Unable to help. Unable to feel anything other than abject pity for this mysterious figure.
A distance unwittingly forms between us as the I withdraws from me. Ten feet, then twenty feet, then thirty feet, maybe, pulling back in one smooth motion as though the thumb and middle finger of some invisible hand pinches together to pan out from his face. Yet there he still stands, hopeless.
He, this enigma, is anathema to me. A tormenting reminder.
Looking down upon him, no longer able to search his eyes, I sense his resignation. He is lost. Abandoned to time, and misfortune. Alone in his unchosen environment, but one of his own creation. Betrayed by the painful disconnection. Unable to find peace, his soul laying buried in the ruins.
He, this enigma, is anathema to me. A tormenting reminder. And I want to escape him, afraid that I share some of his abandonment, loneliness, betrayal, unrest. But curiosity clings to me like a disease. What was he trying to tell me? What did he need? What did he want? I am further from the answers, and him. The enigma has spread, like a viral contagion. Afflicting me, sapping my vitality, leaving me bedridden.
So, I forsake him, compounding his woes. Abandoning him, betraying him. Leaving him behind to this barren wasteland of history—of his story.
I stood face-to-face with a man in the middle of a city street. I stood staring—at myself. What once was, but no more.