6/6/18: A King and a Peasant

I saw the king come forth and the trumpets played and the banners rose. Everywhere he went a moat of guards surrounded him. His body was clean and his hands were soft like fleshy pillows. Jewels like ripe cherries were wrapped around his fingers and only fine threads touched his skin. When he passed, the air smelled the way burnt umber looks. His face shaven so closely it almost seemed strange, silicone. His feet appeared to run off the fuel of admiration, and he enjoyed walking. His eyebrows were lifted and he wore a slight smile as if he were looking in a mirror. His presence had no concern for making anyone feel uncomfortable. When he talked  his eyes never blinked or left his target to assure his dominance. And his eyes were dark, almost black, false eyes. His perspective was built on the belief that he was the beginning and the end, that his will was the one all others bowed to. The only thing he feared were his dreams at night, where he lived in a world he no longer reigned. So he committed his reality to living there, building up physical walls for imaginary throne takers. 

And I saw a peasant boy sitting as the crowds passed by to see the king. He had a shaved head and a pair of plump red lips. His face wore several days worth of dirt, almost the same shade of color as his clothes. He sat against a a half broken down wall on the side of the street, selling little trinkets made from sticks and scraps of cloth or whatever he could find. People would sometimes give him money but never wanted anything he made. He would sometimes look up and squint around, but often wore a distant gaze, head bowed to the dirt. He spent his time balanced, between a sadness that seemingly comes inherently for some in this world, and a joy that came from his imagination. He would smile at things that never existed for other people and laugh at flashes of humor that came into his mind. He had no concern about how he appeared to other people because he knew no one paid any attention. But sometimes, when he thought about it, he feared he was in the way. He was sorry for his existence at times because he wished he could heal the world of its pain, and that he too, played a part in creating that pain. Late at night he talked to God because the dark scared him. While he laid there on the bare ground, he would open up his right hand and close his eyes, waiting for God to confirm him.