Posts Tagged ‘cheap philosophy

25
Sep
08

that is so… white as snow…

The more I think about something, the more I think about everything else.

Suddenly a simple 900m walk that never had anything special, turns into a journey throughout my own mind. Perhaps, throughout someone else’s mind as well.

I barely left my street, and crossed paths with the old man and his gnarled staff yet again. He has snow white, long enough to reach his chest, fuzzy beard; a deep expression carved in his face, that inspires great admiration and respect, at least for me. I wonder what has this old man already seen. I look into his eyes and it makes me wish I could have a glimpse, of what he sees. He’s staring at something continuously and fixedly, as he was every other time we met, and as I know he will be, on the next time.

What could have happened, to such a person? What could have happened, to his family? Did he ever have a family of his own? I think it’s very likely. No: I’m sure of it. For sure he had at least someone special in his life already. Someone that, for some reason, had to leave, or to be left. If the reason was noble or not, I’ll never know, and it’s a question nobody else has the right to ask, but himself. Nobody else can find the answer, but himself. Alone. Walking painfully up and down the suburbs, poking the tarmac as if it could be tortured until an answer jumped out.

A second later, I face a young man painting a wall. He looked extremely tidy for a wall painter: not a single drop of white paint on his clothes. Not yet.

Just like it was with the old man, I’m invisible to him. He astonishingly looks like someone who knows what he’s doing. He’s just painting a wall, but he’s proud of it. He’s fulfilled, satisfied, at least for that moment. He was able to grab the brush, moisten it with paint, and apply to the wall, with no regrets and no doubt.

Perhaps this is what makes him an adult: lack of doubt. Life gave him the tools, and he paints the wall without even blinking.

What if you have all the tools, all the machinery, and no idea? What if you have all the chances, all the luck on your side, all the support and all the odds in your favor, but don’t have a wall to paint? Or worse: what if the wall is there, and you inadvertedly brake your nose running against it, so big the blindness is?

What is this bright, yet pale light, that blocks everything? Reality is so cruel: the wall is always there. Not always in one piece. But be sure, that the bricks are all over the ground, right below your broken nose.

The world is becoming whiter every minute. Opaque as the old man’s beard, yet vivid as the young man’s wall.

The old man’s stare. The one stare that crosses oceans, and borders, and travels through time. Usually to the past. But he looks in someone’s eyes.

The young man’s stare. The present is too bright to be seen; the future, too dark.

White paint. White bricks.

White wall.

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