Blue Eye

I have seen him within the same place in my favorite park since i used to be fifteen years old. He wasn't a confused, weak old man who might be considered a drunkard. He was young: early to mid-thirties, medium height and full build; the body of the development work.

I remember seeing him for the primary time. She was sitting within the corner of the gate round the pool, tucked during a brown sack that had been wrapped. It clothed that the contents of the bag weren't suspicious, but rather quite common .

She always smiled once I passed her, her eyes wandering and never focused. I always found that to be the case for alcoholics. i will be able to always remember two sad, dim blue eyes looking away.

I saw him a minimum of once every week within the same place and at an equivalent time. Whether i used to be riding a motorcycle or walking, seeing him was like passing a mark during a triathlon.

My life was growing, changing; hiss was permanent, an equivalent as ever.

I wondered about his family. He must have a mother. Did he have brothers? Did they cut him faraway from their lives, or had they never existed before? i assumed about how he wasted his time. i assumed he had some quite money that would buy drinks. What was her favorite food, her drink? i assumed of the tone of his voice and therefore the tone of his voice when he laughed. What was he like as a child?

The names i think are most appropriate are Joe, Sam, and Daniel. He seemed like Southern Europe, maybe Italian or Portuguese, but I might be wrong. He was probably from Columbia or Venezuela.

Each day, I added a replacement dimension to my life. i assumed that by thinking of something positive about her, you'd find it. Most of all, I even have wondered how she feels and who she loves. Did he have a soul?

One day I felt very lonely and anxious, so I left my phone reception and picked up my bicycle. In an attempt to form myself available, I sat down on a bench near a man's favorite spot. He was there, as usual, carrying his brown bag.

In the darkness of my worst thoughts, i used to be restored to an easier life by occasional burglary or by the press of a unopened beer. I even have seen him in his reduced state.

What made him and me so different? What was the surprising decision that brought him to the present bench? Was it as simple as taking a replacement route to figure , or was something as complicated as taking a brown paper bag? i might never know.

Then a thought came to me - maybe i used to be wrong. Possibly, he wasn't lonely or abandoned in the least . Perhaps he was just a tired, hardworking man working his beer during a pond, a self-respecting tradition.

It would are a stimulating alternative, but I knew the reality well.

I looked and he was gone. His coat sat up, watching over his drinks.

I thought he was getting to free himself within the woods, so I took my way. The sun went down when lumps appeared on the walls.

Dear drunks, I've known you all my life. I even have cared for you, I even have heard your cry. I fed you and drove you. I'm mad at you.

I forgive you. i think in you. I saw you create the proper choice… and do the incorrect thing… and do the proper thing again.

I sleep in the assumption that at some point you'll all leave a brown sack behind.