The Path. II.

Image from 1fallenangel of Deviant Art

“The paradox seems to be, as Socrates demonstrated long ago, that the truly free individual is free only to the extent of his own self-mastery.  While those who will not govern themselves are condemned to find masters to govern over them.”  {Steven Pressfield, The War Of Art; Page 37}

. . . . .

Outside The Window

Outside the window, the evening’s quilt unfurls in wrinkles of cloud and patches of color.

Outside the window, the man in the hat walks.  Slowly.  The pain is made heavier by the weight of layered trousers lined with some two months of sweat and soil.  His beard was two feet last Christmas, and just stubble this past March, and almost a solid half-foot now.  I see his face, though he cannot see mine.  He watches a young woman. . .

She has left her place.  Stepped out of the scattered cabaret that flanks the avenue with lanky, undulating carcasses with broken high heel shoes and plastic purses.  On cue, she climbs into a white truck.

Outside the window, there are many faces.  His is watching hers.  Hers is smiling: we can see it, the old man and I, through the window of the white truck.  Her face is smiling, while her posture lets slip her distrust of the driver.  She would not smile, if she had the strength.  If she could, she would weep.  But it is not good business, good business is illusion, and so she proffers up the servitude of her appendages in exchange for—the old man’s face doesn’t know. . . In exchange for money?  In exchange for drugs?  Drugs can turn to money; it depends on who she gives them to.  A drug might also be her escape.  A drug was once his escape.  Perhaps for half and half: a little drug, and a little money, if that’s the only way to call it fair.  Or perhaps there is no money, and there are no drugs.  Perhaps she’s just tired, and the white truck—if nothing else—can be a ride across town.

He weeps, the old man in the hat.  Weeps for the young woman in the white truck.  He wishes he could comfort her.  We would they could be comforted, all those faces out the window, on the other side.  We wish they could be convinced to find some scrap of something in themselves, and disappear.  But he cannot comfort her.  We cannot comfort them.  It’s not our place to know how to comfort them.  Convince them?  We cannot.  We could not.  We do not.

Another December, another February, April, May. The color of the evening’s quilt has changed, and the faces out the window stay.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2010