When I first moved into the city, I would take the same route to work everyday; a little stone path that cut through a pale little park. The ocean’s breeze chilled the trees while the grey Pacific clouds wrapped the park in a gloomy blanket. But near the water’s edge there lied a bright red bench, a bold contrast to it’s austere environment. Even more peculiar, though, were the two men who sat on it. The first man was a short fellow with a clean haircut, and an even cleaner suit. He sat reading a newspaper, a blank stare painted on his face. The man sitting next to him, however, was a tall, slender figure, dressed in shabby clothing and hair to match. This man did not read a newspaper, and I doubt he even read at all. He simply looked out at the ocean, it’s continuous rhythm of breaking waves soothing his thoughts. And everyday they would sit there in perfect unison, never speaking for fear that they might break their silent bond. And I, too, never said a word. Their daily routine was a natural process, a cycle that I did not wish to interrupt. And if they were the trees and flowers, forever planted to one place, then I was a bird. I left that city for many years, traveling to new places and wandering through unfamiliar parks, but the bench, and the men, still stayed with me. So, when I returned after my hair had turned grey and bones had grown weak, I was not surprised to see them still sitting there. The short man, though, had grown old; his colors had faded, his face broken and withered. But the dreamer sitting next to him still had his color. He still wore his shabby clothes and looked out at the ocean, but now a smile was painted on his face. And as I look at my old hands, the wrinkles forming mountains, blue veins running through the crevices like rivers, I think that I’ll go find my own bench to sit on. I’ll stare out at the ocean and dream, and I, too, will become a statue.
A contrast in cycles
- Thread starter Charles
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