I saw a crushed and disappointed soul today. His walk was held only by disowned steps upon a hot, gum-spotted sidewalk as he approached the corner swamped by a backed-up sewer. It was not the crushing humidity that pressed him but the reality of his placement in the place.
I am sure he had this experience:
A smart idea. A unique, world-changing revelation conceived by him. A proud idea something that could elevate his confidence, his meaning. To that other person in that space he wakes up for five times a week, his creativity was just not worth the voice that spoke it. Dismissed. Not his job to conceive and create, to make, to inspire. No. He was just the doer. The one to take that snap decision and follow it up with weeks of unrewarded effort for a split second of casual viewing. A possible split second if that presentation is not just tossed in some luxury alligator-skin-cashmere-lined briefcase to be forgotten next to the other effort files.
So lunchtime came and, well, he just did not care enough to push that plastic tool around a desk and see it spin some black arrow around a screen. He needed the outside even if it was not fresh and comforting. A step into a destination. A slow walk where legs are pulled by hands shoved deep into pockets. Hands that are clenched for a moment and then released with a sigh… . . . .. . . . . .
As I walked by his presence, his was in my focus for a moment, then lost as I reached the far corner to my own place.