UltraCrepidate

On the way to my dance lesson, I’d pass by him; sitting… or whatever you call it that he does in his chair selling those bingo tickets to passer-by whilst at the same time begging for money with a hat in his left hand. His hair, a dirty and dying color, balding with his age. His skin, thin and wrinkling, with veins clearly visible from the surface. A man, at the lowest level of the society, ignored and shun by others… Yet he is more man than any of my fellow males.

His body from hip down is missing.

Imaging being him. Never able to have sex with someone, nor enjoy a good old pissing in nature, let along even understanding what it feels like to move his body with his legs… Yet he swallowed his shame, and bared all the stares of strangers to come out and make a living for himself. I wonder, why he lives on. I cannot imagine, what hope he has? Or is he just living, a lump of flesh, due to the need to live?

What are my worries with my dancing compared to his life?

Red puffy eyes, a frown that tells of sorrow and tears that won’t come out. She looked away desperately seeking a refuge from his face. Hoping to find solace in his absence. Him, looking down, ashamed of what he had just done.

What is the story? I wondered, staring at the couple in silence. Feeling the purity of the emotions they emit. So simple yet so strong. Parting? Breaking up? No… cheating. The guy is at fault. For it is he who appears conscious and ashamed. It is the woman who is looking away, angry at what he had done. It is not the fading of love for they end up going home together, but a moment of weakness of the guy’s part. Simple, but sad.

Everyday, the train carries hundreds of stories with it. Amongst them, the saddest novel can be made, but simple ones such as these are repeated everyday.