Each day I can watch him trudging home from wherever he has been. Fortunately it is downhill from the bus stop to where he lives. He never smiles, eyes focused on the ground a few feet in front of his pace.
The world so heavy that he can’t even look up.
Shoulders sagging under the weight of the last straw, and the last straw before that… and the one before that. A succession of so many minor beatings to the ego that he flinches reflexively at anything, everything, expecting the worst
Back bent from too many sorrows.
And you want him to rise up?