Crying Man

The quiet ringing of paranoia sets in as I lie in bed, waiting for sleep to come. Raccoons begin their familiar dance on the roof, but something about tonight is different. I think back to my greatest memories, and realize that I can't think of any. There's just one memory that I can't shake. It consumes me, and takes the place of every face in the shadows of my mind. All one memory, all one face, all one pain.

I skipped along side my mom, as it was the day before my 16th birthday. We walked with the large crowd of people in the subway, all trying their best to keep their distance from each other. We kept pace with the swagger that comes from living in the city. Self-entitled. Confident. Ruthless. Then I saw him. All of the world was in his eyes. He was in pain. I could see no wound, or break. But I felt it. His crumpled body leaned heavily on the floor against the wall. His sunken cheekbones were a perfect match to the rest of this mans skin and bones. I knew nothing about him, not even the sound of his voice. But wait, maybe he was screaming? No. I don't remember. I just know he may as well have been screaming at the top of his lungs through a speaker, because his pain was evident, and clear as day. Yet, we all hustled to our hair appointments, and birthday parties, and dinners with family and friends. Because we are Self-Entitled. And Confident. And Ruthless.