He sat across the room greeting everyone who crossed his path. In all actuality, he seemed to be eagerly crossing their paths. Regardless of any rules of politeness my parents ever tried to instill in me as a child, I stared at this man. I just couldn't take my eyes off him. My eyes and my heart hurt to look away even more than they hurt to stare.
He turned, smiled, and although I returned the gesture, I felt so sad. (A sadness that penetrated deep in my heart and wouldn't let me thoughts go.) Looking at his long gray hair and his tired eyes that always seem to hide behind his awkward ill-fitting glasses, I had the sudden urge to take his picture. I felt such an overwhelming urge to capture this moment, this exchange of sadness hiding behind uncomfortable smiles.
He could walk out of here and die.
He will die.
Why do I even care? I do care. I don't know why.
I didn't take his picture. I wanted to. But I didn't. My camera just sat on my table with its lens cap tightly on. He even pointed out my camera and asked me all about my hobby. He even let me know I could take his picture when ever I wanted to.
I wanted to.
I didn't take his picture.
This made me oh so very sad.
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