Knowing Without Legs

Knowing Without Legs Eric Stephens

He wore faded jeans. The blue dye disappearing like childhood. A white T, and weathered tennis shoes. This boy. He never knew me. Never knew I'd be born someday. But I knew him well. Like he was my son. Or maybe my father.

In a small industrial town. Where the air was too thick to smell anything sweet. Where the people never went anywhere; dead motors that couldn't sense the heat of ignition if they were over-flooded with magma. In the center of town. A small circle of friends gathered in a rundown studio: a hidden hole in the wall. Where they painted. Where they wrote. The air was different there. They could breathe art, instead of smoke. And it filled them. And became them.

He saw his future as if watching a movie: he would be in London; walking the city streets; painting for the English public. He was always looking for the fast-forward button. Anything to quicken his leaving: his birth.

He used to speak with sunlight in his eyes. That would spread out the shadows covering the faces his friends forgot themselves in. Forgot about what it was to live. What they were born with.

Now. He must be a walking ghost. Walking the streets of London at night. Staring into galleries through frosted glass. Watching the parties of people turn into pixels. As he moves on. Taking the footpath through Piccadilly Circus. Where the crowds watch right through him. Only seeing a slight softening of shapes. A quiet whisper of color. As he passes. As he passes.

All the people drive off in cars or take the Underground. All going somewhere. He fills up the empty space: a street corner, a curb. Keeping a lonely lamppost company. Lamplight sprinkles down a cone of warmth. Encircling him. He closes his eyes in a little bit of pain. A tight muscle wraps up his torso. As he sees himself as me again. Like looking into a mirror, and feeling the sudden dropping of the knees. Not recognizing the face staring back. Those two black holes inside.