If you sit quietly and pay attention, you can see the underbelly of the city. Everyday, on the bus to work, they can be viewed and wondered over. Who are these broken souls who cart around their treasures? Who are these homeless shadows, drifting across the landscape of this city.
Rags, and bags, and left shoes, they collect and store, as one would keep your grandmothers necklace she wore at her wedding. What do we do with them, the people demand of the leaders.
Tis it folly to believe a solution out of the minds of mere mortal mentors could possibly hope to solve the millenniums of lost souls that have haunted the hollow ways of every city on earth?
The broken can sometimes not be mended, and even perhaps should not be. The twists and turns of their mind though, they scare the settled, straightforward, good-hearted folk. A wise man once said “a poor man shames us all”…and for shame do we hide the flawed and broken away?
The poor Minton Saucer has lost its value now it has a small chip in the finish?
One of these lost ones I found sitting there at the gates that would lead towards that derelict institution of medicine, of the Old Victoria Hospital. I wonder if it was a place familiar to him, and had it once shuffled the seven floor of that old place of healing. Though, as many of us understand from experience, the mind can be difficult to heal.
We have spent thousands of years now believing ourselves to be the pinnacle of perfection, this human arrogance is probably our biggest flaw. We can not know all, and we never will. To understand why a man breaks, cracks and desires too inhuman to refrain, they stumble away from the pack, towards the shadows of silence. The backways, the hollowed out ground laying dormant behind the city scape.
In time they become the regulars; the downtown knows who the regulars are. Every downtown has their share, drifting in and out of consciousness, living in the cracks.
Someone once termed them “The People of the Crow”…and perhaps that is apt.