Idleman

I feel your eyes upon me. Eyes of pity. Eyes of blame. Eyes of hate.

I frighten you.

I fill your head with what ifs and maybes.

I am the mirror you wish to avoid.

I am the mirror of possibilities.

I am Idleman.

You hold your breath as you pass. You straighten your back and quicken your step. You grip your purse more tightly beneath your elbow and tell your children too loudly, that's what happens to people who don't stay in school.

The children write my name on a cardboard placard, lean it against the wall. Tourists laugh and point, or frown, troubled by this intrusion into their happiness.

I earn my keep with a paper cup, coins dropped in penance to absolve you of sin or assuage you of your guilt.

There is a certain productivity in being idle:

One can dream.

One can watch.

One can hope.

One can learn.

And yet, I do not wish my life to be this way.

I wish for ought-to-bes.

I want to go back to the life I once knew.

I want to go back to being you.

Or do I?

I see you.

I watch you rushing rushing rushing.

Feeding the insatiable corporate beast.

I am reminded of myself

I judge you, as you judge me.

We are both found wanting.

And in the inbetween; that space between idle and insanity, perhaps we can meet.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. The word was idle.