I can see him swaying in the sweltering sun. The mud clings to his skin, like magical powder; leaving a trail on the road as he walks. He is silent, like his eyes. Dead and dreamy. His entire persona is a contradiction in itself. His clothes, once respectable are now torn and grimy. The spit, sweat and vomit that has deposited themselves over the years rises as fumes around him. Funny as it may sound, that is his aura. People passing him try to stop breathing. He does not care. He walks his own road. Twisting and turning, going zigzag, down a straight cemented path. The world tries to ignore him, as he does the same. He is naked bottom down. His skin has turned black over the years, a sticky kind of black. His shirt is barely enough to cover his modesty. But who cares? Not him. Some cringe at his sight, some walk faster, some just stop and crack a joke, and some others laugh at that. I stare and wonder. Who is he? Does anyone know him? Did he have a family? Where are they? How does he live? How does he find food? Does he have a past? I have asked everyone in my locality. They know nothing. And yet they all agree on one thing. He has been around for a very long time. He goes on past me. Not blinking once, not turning or stopping. On and on to an unknown destination. Some place he might call home.
We are born into clichés and grow into them. We are taught to be what we should be.even if we chose to be something different, there is a cliché for that too. We are bound by a group, by its past. We are products of our past, and struggle to keep up its name and status. We all have a past to live up to, and a past to create for others to live up to. He has none.