I saw a man crossing Morgan Street, behind the bus station. He was lean and tall. He might have been in his forties or fifties. He walked straight ahead with determination but without hurry, in the middle of traffic.
He was naked. His cock and balls bounced with each step he took. His salt and pepper hair flew wild around his face, partially hidden by a scraggly beard; his eyes seemed empty, without awareness. He was walking west, towards a dead end. He had no visible injuries. He did not look hurt. He was beautiful in his madness, primal but lost; lost to this reality, to this world, to the present.
He was someone’s child; he must have had lovers at one time, perhaps even now someone loved him, but he was forsaken. Somewhere his mind had self-destructed, unable to cope with his pain, from whatever source. His body could not protect his mind and in turn his mind deserted him, leaving him wide open to stares and worse, but he was not feeling the vulnerability of his nakedness. His world seemed empty of feelings. Mostly… Because with each resolute, barefoot stride, while his member slapped against his thighs and his left arm swung slightly, his right arm was folded stiffly on his chest so that the palm of his large hand covered his heart, in an attempt at protection.
He was hurting and alone, beautiful and fragile: a human condition.
He had been someone’s little boy, someone’s sweetheart. I was undone and helpless faced with the ruin of his sanity and the devastation of his pain. There but for the grace of God, go I.