The little ball sliding along the ground, gracefully, rippling over the grooves in the footpath, bouncing over little pebbles, specks of fallen dust, autumn leaves, brown and floating in the winter air. Protecting the man. The stick held tight in his hand. Shuffling footprints, the screaming and buried movement that’s surrounded by a possessive wall that is cemented in thin air.
The small ticking sound of the ball as it scuttles back and forth, tick-tick-ticking as hits against the tall dark walls lining the street. This at times stops him behind his own wall of despair. How does this man exist behind the barriers? I follow the man questioning my place and my right. Who am I to judge whether or not he is coping. I sense his unease as he stops feeling his hand against the deep green paint of a doorway. His long slender fingers run up and down the smooth corner, feeling for conformation he is in the right place. I walk past him, watching, silent, my heart racing, but also clutching at the wall.
Despair beckons the disguised heart.