You are in the center of this posting. I don't know you. We met in Paris, the other week. No, you did not see me. You lived in your own world.
From a distance I thought you were a statue. I had visited the Rodin museum that morning. I had seen wonderful statues, people captured in bronze. The Penseur, Thinking Man, impressive. So, for me, you looked as a modern statue, at first glimpse. A strong body, representing a working man, having a break.
How hard it was to face reality. You were all naked. Covered with some plastic. Your eyes staring. Pigeons tripping around and on your legs. You did not react. Old bread beside you. Not touched.
I could not reach you. You seemed like dead. You lived, not aware of living. Traffic passing by. In front of you: a street sign, parking place to the right. As if you had to make one more move. Not allowed to stay behind those plastic blocs.
An advertisement on the streetcar said: come and visit our musical 'The Lion King'. Paris night scene.
The only lion king I wanted to visit was you. You were beautiful. If Rodin had still been alive, you would have been his model.
What happened to you? You deserved better. I could not reach you, couldn't give you money, couldn't give you anything. You were travelling in your innerworld, leaving your beautiful body on a Paris pavement.
I could have been your mother, you were not older than 30. You made me cry.
Maybe, one day, some one tells you that a Vicky made a tribute to you. I do hope you will survive. May life be good to you.
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