There he sits at age 24. Hair grown long. Goodwill clothes. Body odor emanating. He wants to be a citizen of the streets. He strums his guitar that he never learned to play. In fact, it was one of the many Christmas gifts he was given so many years ago. He beat it up though. He wouldn't dare let the other people of the street see that he came from privilege.
How could he risk being rejected from the one place he ever really felt at home? "Does someone need to know your entire past and the nature of your roots for you to really belong?" He wonders. Is he just an actor on this stage that all the others experience as real life?
What is the difference between living and observing because there most certainly is one. Once he becomes a participant, he loses his entire sense of wisdom and control. Because to live, we must love. And as Bob Dylan once said, "There is no wisdom in falling in love." Did he really say that? He wonders.
That's what started his whole journey to begin with. He met her. The woman of his dreams. She was from the same kind of family. Their paths aligned perfectly. At least from his parents point of view. They were so proud. The future seemed so bright and so certain. Rich, smart, perfect babies. Luxury cars and fun vacations. And the only dark day would be one where he would have to work too late.
But something happened. Something so inexplicable, and yet so obvious at the same time. Things didn't work out. She ran off with a wealthier man and he realized all of his aspirations revolved around a future which was entirely contingent upon her existence in it.
He keeps a picture in his pocket of himself. A picture from not so long ago, and yet it feels like it feels like it is from another lifetime. He wonders if all the discussion of past lives really just refers to the phases of life we live on this planet. Not lives that require actual death. Maybe just a figurative one. After all, aren't all of our cells remade every 7 years? Isn't that one of those annoying facts everyone knows, but remains to actually be proven?
He looks at the picture and sees a different man. A man whose skin is perfectly smooth. Whose teeth aren't stained. Whose smile has no idea that there are no such things as happy endings. A palette that is made up of two flavors. Good and bad. Somehow he misses that man that he used to be. But in the same breath, he feels strong in the man he has become. Maybe he's not ready to to be called a man just yet. But he feels proud of the person who has dared to lose his sense of security and self and venture into the unknown. The place where nothing is safe, and the only thing anyone can judge him by are his actions.
He sits there strumming his guitar reciting the words that come into his head as he watches the passersby. He knows better than to be judgmental. Not wanting to create any pain for another being.
And stories flood through his mind, almost as if he can see the future and past in one blink of an eye for every face he views. The stories he sees though, remain in his mind. He is so afraid to put it all on paper. What if he offends someone? Words like Black and White. Mexican and Vietnamese. Gay and straight. Married and cheating. Bored and manic. Such labels that are so necessary, yet so constricting and imprisoning. How can one break free from what they are so they can become what they might be?
Maybe that's what imprisons him. So afraid to make a move for fear of how it will define him. That is why there is so much comfort in remaining the lonely observer. It's almost as if he can watch life like a movie, predicting every success and failure, without having to do either himself. No one to tell him, "I told you so." No one to point and laugh. Or worse, talk about him behind his back. Especially now that he is a citizen of the streets. No one knows him, and yet he knows everyone.
