I see a sweet old man sitting in the terrace gazing at the passing cars and little families passing by in this tradicional Sunday morning.
His back is slightly curved, just as his age demands it to be, with grizzly white hair covering most of his head.
Wearing a yellow polo with horizontal white stripes and dark blue summer knee shorts with a leather black belt.
Resting rather peacefully on the cane of his nose, there are these thick, white framed, spectacles.
His hands shake as he takes a cigarette close to his mouth . He seems a little uncomfortable, maybe due to the hot day that is already forming outside.
As he stands up to go talk to the waiter (they seemed to know each other), I notice his walk to be really funny,
balancing from left to right in a mechanical way,
completely deprived of rhythm and probably acquire over the span of a lifetime using the same old bones.
As I read yet another Oliver Sacks' book, I can't help but take in some of his love and admiration for the frail and the so called "less complete" people of our world.
The sun light hits the outside chairs with a bright silver shine, but the sweet human described here reads his paper in the shade.
I completely understand why this is his preference. We can all admit that the sun is warm and cozy,
but it turns us into the laziest version of ourselves, with no will to ever leave it.
The shade, on the other hand, is calming and energetic.
There's always something fun to do while in it, such as reading or writing.
More and more I'm becoming torn between the shade and the light, just the same as my ever growing impossibility of choosing between the sun or the moon.
It used to be so easy, in the darker times. Now that the light is coming in through the cracks, it makes me doubt.
Where to I truly belong?
What if I refuse to choose?
Maybe when I'm old, these matters won't eat at me any longer.
Maybe there will only be a cup of coffee, a cigarette and a good book,
and everything else will simply be too irrelevant to waste time wondering about.