Building Castles

I had intended to include a description of this guy in the entry about Avenida Sete de Setembro, but I decided he warranted his very own post.


Behind those eyes there is a story to tell. He looks off into the distance and his mind wanders over the ruins of the castles of his dreams. He looks with sorrow, but with this self-aware acknowledgment that makes me curious. His eyes are big and round, with the innocence of a joyful child. But the wrinkles upon his brow know his trials. I want to make eye contact, to bore deep into those dark holes and connect to his trapped spirit. But I look down and away, because society has taught me that he could be dangerous or unpredictable, and definitely not someone to initiate conversation with.
He never shouts out or mumbles to himself. He never begs or reaches out to grab your hand. He never smiles. He just looks with those wide eyes. Do I smile? Do I say good morning? Do I sit down next to him and look off into that distance? Can I offer my hand for all those stones? They scatter the ground-- some cracked, some pulverized. They lay there defeated.
He has dignity. For most of the day he sits on a piece of cardboard against a tree, because it is cleaner than the ground. He has Nike shoes and a nice bike with 21 gears that leans against the green fence in front of administration of agriculture. His hair is trimmed short and his beard well kept. His red and blue shirt stays clean. He has a backpack that is zipped up and rests on the back of his bike. And he sits there all day, knees up, and arms resting on them. People pass, cars drive by but no one acknowledges him. His mind is off, back to those castles. He is picking up the cracked stones—dusting them off, lining them up. He is here and he is there, and he is aware.
Sometimes he is laying down with his girlfriend. He spreads out a plaid red sheet on top of a few pieces of cardboard. It is a king size bed from the Venetian hotel, right there on the cobblestones. He has one arm around her, and lays there, looking up at the sky through the leaves of the oak trees. His shoes off and tucked up against the wall. She sleeps with a pained look on her face. Her dreams provide no escape from her suffering. She stays on her side, curled up. Her torn T-shirt doesn't cover her protruding belly. Her feet are bare, callused and dirty. The curls on her head are matted. She is always asleep; trapped in that tormented dream. And he lays there looking up. Out of his soul he pours the walls of protection for this girl. He waits for her, but I don't think she will ever make it there. But he has patience, with one hand beneath the back of his head and one hand under hers. He mixes the mortar to lay the bricks one by one. He has faith. Her bedroom will have a big window with lace curtains and a thick white carpet.
She disappears for weeks at a time. And when she comes back its the same; she is always asleep. But, her belly is a little bit rounder, her shirt a little bit dirty, and the bars of the hell she is trapped in, no closer to being unlocked. He says not a word, but he welcomes her with open arms. He looks at her with those wide eyes as she sleeps. He sees her with a summer dress on and shoes and freshly washed hair. But she can't see it, she doesn't open her eyes or want to see her own reflection. She is gone. She has no strength to climb up to his castle. But he knows. When he's finished painting the trim and planting the garden in the front, he will lift her up and carry her inside.