If you passed him in street you wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Properly dressed, semi-polished shoes and a slight limp perhaps. But put on your sunglasses, you knew the ones that makes you see a bit more, the psychic ones. You would notice a slight hump on his back, looking a bit like a rucksack. Focus your mind and you’d start to see the contents.
There are tracks among the layers of words, words thought over and over until they could never be spoken.
There are twisted paths through dark forests, where the howling wind thwarts common sense to prevail, insanity reigns.
There are bruises, cuts and open chronic wounds from the words spoken in anger, resentment and the moments of silence when nothing was said – for days.
There are pockets full of breadcrumbs, mouldy and green, forgotten and never used. Had they been he might never lost his way, and never been led astray.
There are rocks and boulders gathered over the years to build the castle where he’d live out his days with his Queen of choice.
There are letters never opened and post cards never sent. Phone calls never answered, and bells tolling death.
Now remove your sunglasses, and take another look. You notice the crooked back, the face all wrinkled and scarred. His tired eyes looks up at you, yearning for forgiveness – begging to be reborn.
