After a long week at work, all he could think about was the tree. This tree grew from the banks of a creek that the landscape architects manually constructed in the local park. It was something. It annoyed him that a stone’s throw from this man-made creek, there was the road. The cars passed sporadically so they would disturb his alone time. It is a park in the middle of the city after all, what more did he expect?
As he was walking down to the man-made creek with the natural tree that found a way to grow there, he saw a figure. It was not the end of the month. It was the middle of the month. So, he didn’t expect people at the park. There’s usually a homeless man at the park, but this man sits at the far end of the park. Usually, when he goes to the park, there is no one who sits under the naturally grown tree. Simply because the architects of the park did not plan on the tree being there. So, they did not place any bins, chairs or benches near this park section. So, the Earth under this tree was true and real. The roots came from underneath the soil, making it uncomfortable for city folk in their designer jeans.
This little portion of land connected him to Earth. Only the artificially constructed creek was man-made. But this portion of the park, this tiny section was his escape from the world. However, it seemed that he was not the only one who needed the escape on that day.
The closer he walked to the tree, the figure began to become clearer. He could tell that it was a woman. She looked relatively young, probably in her mid-twenties close to her late twenties. Her skin was close to that of chocolate custard as the shades of the leaves danced on her. A weave dawned her head and rested comfortably just above her shoulders. It seemed that she was lost in a world of her own.
He felt a ping of anxiety flow in his body. He was naturally a shy person. He was the type of person who walked looking down. Not because he lacked confidence, but because he did not want to engage people in conversation. A look into someone’s eyes invites a smile and a greeting. Sometimes this greeting is followed up with an unnecessary conversation. How he hated those unnecessary conversations. So, looking down was a way of avoiding those unnecessary conversations with strangers.
And also, it was a woman. He was not a lady’s man. He was not a born Casanova. He did not possess the social acumen to be calm around women. Even more so around women, he found attractive. And by the look of things, this woman already possessed attributes that he found attractive: her skin and the fact she found comfort sitting under the most uncomfortable part of the park.
But nonetheless, he could not turn back now. He was already a few steps away from the tree. Perhaps he would sit on the right side of the tree. The tree was big enough to accommodate both of them. He took a deep breath as he mentally conditioned himself. He took two extra deep breaths to calm his anxiety. So deep were his breaths that he found himself walking towards the left of the tree where she was sitting. She raised her head to look behind her. It was too late to turn back now.
Shyly and awkwardly he pulled his bag from his back. He gently descended to the Earth below him. Like a Chinese monk meditating to Buddha, he softly landed on his knees and brought his bag to the front of him. He was nervous but knew he had to remain calm. From the peripheral of his view, he saw the woman was wearing black framed glasses. Another element he found attractive in a woman. He opened his bag and pulled out a mini-blanket. So as not to tear the blanket, he carefully placed it under his knees, lifting one knee at a time. He then closed his bag and placed his bag to his side.
As he was doing so, he saw that the woman was sitting on a mini-blanket as well. Instead of being on her knees, she was sitting on her bum with her legs crossed. In her lap rested a book. In her hand, her fingers clutched a pencil. It seemed that she took was nervous about the unknown man sitting next to her. To break the awkward silence, he took a deep breath and introduced himself.
“Poetry is a great way of finding your mind, don’t you think?” he asked her.
“It is I guess,” she responded.
“Excuse me for intruding on your time and personal space, but mind I ask?” He asked her.
“You are intruding but yeah sure,” she responded.
“What is your poetry about?” he asked. He felt slightly insulted by the directness of her response. But in the same breath, she had every right to be mean to a stranger invading her chronological and physical space.
“It isn’t really poetry. It’s more of a reflection. And I know you’ll ask me about what. It is a reflection of my purpose on this planet,” she responded.
“Well, you should then know what I’ll ask now,” he responded with a chuckle.
“Lo and behold my clairvoyant powers,” she responded with an over-the-top, witch impersonation.
“She’s weird,” He thought to himself. Another element that made him feel more attracted to her.
“Look at that man over there. The homeless man. Do you tell me that the man woke up and decided that he’ll be homeless? I don’t think so. I do not think that he woke up and told himself that he will be homeless.
So now we ask ourselves, what made him homeless? You see we do not ask him that. I believe we are from the same generation. Do you know remember there was a time of ‘the homeless kids’? ‘Street kid’ as the media called them? She asked him.
“Yes, yes I do,” he responded.
“And do you remember how they focused on how the street kid was hooked on glue? Like glue was the nyaope of our time?” she asked him.
“Yes, yes I do,” he responded.
“But did those media people ever stop and ask how these kids could be helped? They focused on them being on the streets and being addicted to glue. Yet they never stopped and asked why those kids were on glue and why it was difficult for them to let go of it.
Yeah, sure they told us about how they use to escape the pain of their reality, how some of these kids ran away from alcoholic mothers, uncle molesters and abusive siblings. But they never discussed how someone who’s addicted to anything needs that something to survive. Addiction mentally rewires your mind to depend on the substance that’s releasing that dopamine that is giving you a rush,” she said.
He was not sure where she was going with this, but her mind was vast and deep. The attraction he was feeling was slowly becoming love.
“So now, let’s get back to what you asked me. What have I written on this tiny notepad of mine about our purpose? And the truth is nothing. Just rumblings. Because I have been looking at that man as he went to the bin after another man dripped in Nike, head to toe, threw away a KFC paper bag in it. Mr Nike saw this man. He did not greet him. He walked to the bin and threw away the bag and walked back to his BMW. When he drove off, this homeless man walked to the bin and pulled out the paper bag. He literally took out the bucket that was in that bag and poured out the bones in his plastic bag,” she said. She was getting emotional as her words were heavier and her breathing slightly more laboured.
They were both facing the homeless person. The space between them was closed by the compassion they felt for him.
“But this is the city,” she continued, “we have conditioned our hearts to be cold. Because inasmuch my heart is feeling overwhelmed by the man’s pain, to feed his addiction, more accurately, for him to survive because the addiction has reverted his mind into survival mode, that man would rape or even kill me if he saw something valuable on me. And I assume that he is addicted to something.”
He could tell that she was deeply moved by her reflection. He did not know what to say. He did not know what to do. He simply looked at the homeless man with her.
“So, I ask myself, unknown man, what’s my purpose? I ask myself why do I feel safer with you than I would with that homeless man. When we read the news, it’s you guys who are clean killing their girlfriends. It is not that homeless man. You might be addicted to Twitter with the baddies exposing their nakedness for money, but that addiction is not as damaging to the mind as the addiction that stripped that man to homelessness. Do you see how sick and confused the world is? But guess what, this is the city. People are too busy building careers and being human plastics on social media to care.” She said. At this point, tears were flowing down her cheeks.
“Human plastics,” he softly whispered to himself. She heard him.
“Yes, human plastics. Like the plastic that struggles turtles. Like the plastics that suffocate the soil. Humans live fake and disruptive lives. I once dated the coolest guy at my workplace. He smelt good. He drove a Golf 7 TSI. He dressed nothing but label. His skin was smooth and flawless. Only to find out that he doesn’t own the Golf, it is his mother’s. With the clothes he wears, the store has taken legal action to claim their debt. And to maintain his skin and his scent with expensive and carefully curated potions for him, he actually maxed out his R25 000 credit card. He is handsome. If you did not get close to him as I did, you would never know this was his life. I mean on Instagram he is at the exclusive, invite-only clubs and bars around. But all that is a mirage. He is fake.
But his some 30k followers believe it to be true. He is the plastic that is suffocating those 30k perceptions about what reality truly is. I mean people will post about the beautiful beaches of Jamaica but not the poverty they see on the roads leading to them. That’s the world we live in unknown man. A world made of plastic,” she said.
He remained on his knees. He did not expect the conversation to venture so far into her mind. He was speechless and conflicted by emotion. Watching that homeless man, he wondered the same question about his homelessness. His mind was confused as her reflection ranged from purpose to addiction to survival to the fakeness of the world. His heart made it worse because now he was seduced by this woman.
“Look, I’m getting emotional. I’m leaving now. Thank you for your time. Perhaps next time we won’t talk about homelessness and our lost souls. Maybe next time you’ll ask me about my favourite colour and I’ll tell you it’s red because red is for love,” she said. She got up from her sitting position. Only her pencil, mini-blanket and notepad were the possessions she had. She carefully tucked them under her right arm and walked away.
Left alone with the far distant homeless man in front of him, he was deep in thought. His mind too was pondering about purpose. His mind too was pondering humans and the fake lives they live only to be validated by other unknown humans in the digital world.
His heart, however, pondered when he’ll see her again. This woman who sat at his spot. This woman who cried in the presence of an unknown man. This woman who found the root of an invasive tree near a man-made creek comfortable.
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