Psyche Talks

He hasn't grown tired of it. He's still here, despite his half-witted resolve. Despite being shunned and his life often overlooked, he nevertheless races with the wind whenever a vehicle passes by. The chirpers had ridiculed him, and he mistook their ridicule for praises and words of encouragement. As if the rain drenching him was a sign of good fortune rather than something to be depressed about. The bench, which he had come to regard as his bed, began to disintegrate. The metal wires that acted as its foundations had started to corrode, leaving gums trapped at its base as proof of its existence. Despite the somber coldness of the lane, he grinned as though he were being caressed by the warm golden rays. It had insinuated itself into our ears as we heard his desperate cries asking those ephemeral wanderers to take him with them. We'd been trying for a long time to shatter his hopes, to convince him that if he gives up now, he won't have to go through the agony of hanging on. But, as every good man has said, breaking someone who hasn't ever give up is difficult. As a consequence, every time we gaze down on him, he returns the stare, his face painted with hopeful enthusiasm. When we were busy catering to our needless needs, we were conscious of the silence. His silhouettes had vanished, along with all else that served as a reminder of his life. And there, smiling goodbye, he sat comfortably with the blurry faces, gliding through the air, oblivious to the fact that he was riding with the storm. He smiled at us as he peered through the glass, his eyes stepping over our assumptions, manifesting the gleam of someone who never gives up hope.