I emerged from the subway tunnel at dusk one evening to find a homeless man ripping apart a down filled jacket. He stood on the gum-encrusted filthy cement with clumps of pristine white feathers all around him. The scent of marijuana and urine was pervasive. His face was a duet of anger and absorption. We were all careful not to stare, to give him space, to hurry on by, as if this wasn’t happening. No-one talked to him. I don’t remember what he wore. I fingered the subway ticket in my pocket and walked on by like everyone else.
But, hours later, I could not get the image out of my mind of him standing there, feathers around his feet. It made me think – In what ways am I crazy? What compulsions do I carry? What would I like to rip up? What part of myself am I unwilling to acknowledge?
We could do worse than to leave a trail of feathers in the wake of our own secrets.
What is your own form of craziness?
What makes you so enraged your would like to rip something up?
What do you do instead of ripping up a jacket, to manage the emotions that well up in you?
