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Pic is old but the story is new (grin)
He is badly overweight and its painfully obvious in the way he walks that his feet are the messengers of this pain. His face describes every step in excruciating detail and the furrowed skin of his brow is cut deep like earth turned by a farmer's plough.
He looks my way but sees through me and doesn't see anything of the happy people scurrying past. He must have some great purpose to be here but his cheap and ill-fitting clothing betrays him.
His eyes are the brightest of blue but itís the reflection of the world and its lights and maybe not his own life that looks so bright in them.
I donít take these kind of pictures.
I see a beauty in him but how do I explain that?
Do I snap his picture and tell him that I think he is beautiful?
Do I smile as I tell him that his pain moves me just as it moves him.
To take the picture I have to be sure that its a good picture and I'll likely run up to him to show him but he is not for my experiments.
I donít take his picture.
He is heavy but he moves as though he is weightless, as if he is walking underwater. His arms are bent and his palms are open as if he is treading the waves.
Its the earth that gives him this pain and nothing he can do will detach him from it. He lifts a foot and it floats in the air for a moment but the pain is always in the other.
It is a smooth and even pavement. His feet don't need a caution for hazard or pothole and his shoes look fine but in them his bare feet are feeling out a purchase on the sharp and brittle coral.
I can see a woman looking at him and she looks to me as if I should acknowledge her dislike for this scene. I've seen people like her before. Perfect hair and perfect nails but imperfect minds and I don't photograph them either. I wonder if she has her own children and can imagine this man's mother seeing what has become of her baby. I don't waste any film or any time thinking of her and continue to watch the beautiful man pass out of sight.
Now he is gone and I fill my lungs to bursting and dive in, too late to change my mind.
Iím swimming against the faster current of this fresh crowd and my sea-mask-view fills with the color and movement of shiny exotic bodies.
I'm in the deep end and I only have my skin to protect me.
A shape fills my lens as it brushes past and I can see a flash of white teeth.
Iím swimming too close.
Ömuch too close.
ɹǝpun uʍop puɐl ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ