Can't bring myself to hate them.
The men from the second floor, that is. They drink, smoke and do drugs in the staircase. They're destroying the building, bit by bit. Threatening our peace, our sense of safety.
And yet they're not mean, at least not to me. Polite, sweet. Sad young men, who do drugs. The blond one has lost half of his weight since I last saw him. He barely goes out anymore, and when he does, it's only at night. I hear him yell at some of his friends some nights, when they meet in the street under my windows, or in the hallway.
I worry that one day one of them will do something even more stupid than destroying themselves. Get into a fight, run in the middle of the road, ride their scooter a tad too fast. Yet, when I feel selfish and very tired of them, I hope they'll do just that, and hurt themselves so bad I won't ever hear of them anymore.
But then I look at them: two little boys, lost, and more self-destructive than I've ever been; and I can't bring myself to hate them.
Sometimes I just wish I weren't able to see them.
And yet they're not mean, at least not to me. Polite, sweet. Sad young men, who do drugs. The blond one has lost half of his weight since I last saw him. He barely goes out anymore, and when he does, it's only at night. I hear him yell at some of his friends some nights, when they meet in the street under my windows, or in the hallway.
I worry that one day one of them will do something even more stupid than destroying themselves. Get into a fight, run in the middle of the road, ride their scooter a tad too fast. Yet, when I feel selfish and very tired of them, I hope they'll do just that, and hurt themselves so bad I won't ever hear of them anymore.
But then I look at them: two little boys, lost, and more self-destructive than I've ever been; and I can't bring myself to hate them.
Sometimes I just wish I weren't able to see them.