The Suffering Man

He is a shell of a man in more ways than one. Chronic illness has emaciated him and I can see the outline of every one of his ribs stretching against his scarred thinning skin. His hair has been reduced to wisps; a few threadbare cornrows are all that's left. Years of hard living have thinned out his frontal lobes and he spends most of his days wailing and railing his heartfelt dissatisfaction against everyone and everything - mostly incoherently. A life of dope only to be forced into a doped stupor at the very end. He has been reduced to an ill tempered infant, literary banging his fists out of primal rage. He must have been a man at some point, who experienced life in the complex way life is experienced. I can only imagine that it was a difficult life, filled with tragedy and injustice. Now that all the ego and superego have been stripped from him, he is the embodiment of suffering. 

Ironically he has lovely eyes framed by long, curly lashes usually seen on creatures of the feline family or in young girls blessed with exceptional beauty. Such lovely eyes consumed with bitterness. Despite his frailty, he has the fire to hate and hate so deeply. 

He would accuse me of abusing him and then grab my hand and sob. He'd yell at me and then hold me in desperation. The nurses made fun of his antics; he made their lives miserable. 

I felt for him because I don't blame him one bit for feeling the way he does. I think I would feel the same way. Maybe beneath it all I do.