The bridge that runs adjacent to the famous pier

Have you seen the man?
Have you seen the tortured artist that lives near the pier?
The loner who hides from the crowds, emerging only at midnight to dance with the sea and bathe with the moon? Wrapped up in a dark towel of night sky, his excitement reflected in shooting stars.

They say he’s lived there for many years yet his origins are unknown. He just appeared suddenly one day and his existence was not questioned. He was mute, not friendly, not unfriendly. A loner who kept out of everyone’s way and out of respect, or maybe fear, they kept out of his.

He made his home underneath the bridge that runs adjacent to the famous pier. The rumours say he chose there so he could always be close to people. I like to believe it’s because he likes the coloured lights. Maybe their continuous flashing and changing remind him of the life he once had. Or never had.

He spends his days looking outwards at the never ending cobalt blue sea, whilst simultaneously scratching a living from sketching his dreams. His work sells swiftly and frequently, as continuous as he can produce it. He wants for nothing.

We watch him constantly, through the glass windows at work. He is a distraction from endless coffee re-fills and blueberry muffins. He is constant yet intriguing all at once. He is a cause for speculation during the slow hours and a mere sign of familiarity during the frantic ones.

We take him for granted.

We watch him like a sitcom happening right before our very eyes. He is every character, the centre of every scene.
The locals have him pegged as an enigma.
A modern day adventurer?
A secret millionaire?
Ex-war vet?
Fanatic addict who lost it all?

Me, I think he is brave. He is choosing to live outside the constraints of our consumer society. He chooses not to to play by our rules but to create and perfect his own. To me he is the very definition of liberation. 

And freedom.
And for that I envy him.
We should all envy him.

Even when the gales come and tussle his long, brown hair, he stands relentless in the face of nature, taking whatever punishment she throws at him and using it as inspiration for his work. His art. His gift. Replicating her natural displays in his own fine interpretation. He is static. And familiar. And the unknown, all in one. 

We have grown to like him. 

He is our friend.

So when we saw the bright yellow police tape circling the bridge that runs adjacent to the famous pier, confusion and wonder flashed across our faces. Wearing apprehension like a new pair of shoes we timidly approached the growing crowd and craned our necks in an effort to understand the drama unfolding before us. Rumours surrounded us as people we did not know stopped and stared.

Stared.
At the white sheet that lay draped over his body like a layer of freshly fallen snow, winters first offering of the season and a hint of the chill to come.
Crimson danced around his body like oil on water and the silence that fell was deafening. It couldn't possibly be….could it?

My sad brown eyes caught those of a nearby police officer and in an instant, I knew all I needed to know. 

Our friend was gone.

Our loner who danced with the sea and bathed with the moon now only existed in another universe, another life time, another realm. His artistry and his freedom evaporated like dust in a strong wind. No longer present, no longer visible to the naked eye, but still around, blowing and twirling in mid-flight, forever floating between worlds.

We retreat to the diner for hot coffee, some with a splash of whisky. And say nothing. And do nothing. There are no fresh blueberry muffins to serve today. All the food has gone stale and the customers are no longer hungry.

Instead, we stare as a collective out of the diner windows, out at a world we feel we no longer know nor understand. Nor like.

We stare.
And we stare some more.
And then we cry.