The man in the window.
Today I took a picture of a man whose name escapes me. I don’t know him personally, but I see him most days if I am at home. He does not cross the street and greet you warmly, he does not deliver your post or stop by for a coffee, this man is a watcher.
That’s the name I’ve given to people who are destroyed by their own hand, those who put their habits or actions before everything and become the shell of their former self, sentenced to take a back-seat for the rest of their foreseeable lives.
This man sits in his room, he never leaves. Like an alcoholic Havisham, he has food and bottles sent up to him daily by his family whilst he gazes at the world through his window. This man is a monument to alcoholism. The family members are the congregation who deliver their contributions to the centre character, sacrificing emotional well-being in exchange for his artificial satisfaction.
He should be looked to as a warning sign to those who flirt with alcohol a little too much, people should remember there is nothing glamorous about his life: He most likely drank like a rock-star in his former youth, now he spends the rest of his days in decrepitation.