White!
On white days he was the nicest man on the planet. He stood up early to walk around the neighbourhood and check if everything was alright. Neighbours loved him for that, as burglars were scared of him. They knew him and his gun too well. He smiled and joked the whole day, bought ice cream for each kid and invited friends for lunch and prepared yummy barbecues. He talked and laughed and hugged and kissed and looked like the sun. As if earth was spinning around him, he was a magnet. His presence made everything feel so comfortable and perfect. As if nothing could go wrong, because he was there. In his bright honey-coloured eyes you could see in one glance his wit. When you hugged him you felt a sailor's strength. Covered with tattoos he never told the stories of his journeys. They remained secret. Not even Popeye, the huge tattoo that covered his arm from elbow to wrist, let you know what he had seen. He had made a pact with Popeye to remain silent. Popeye kept his promise, while his owner spoke fluently five languages and was always surrounded by admirers, who listened to his warm, strong voice, telling stories from the land, but never from the sea.
This tattooed man who carried a gun, sat down on the kitchen table to teach me patiently how to paint with water colours. His strong hands holding the brush, stroking the white paper, created beautiful landscapes with dark green trees and wide beaches.
I wished I could one day be like him.
Black!
On black days he was the roughest man on the planet. He stood up late in the afternoon to walk around the house and get what he needed. His family hated him for that and were scared of him. They knew him and his rage too well. He did not speak, only muttered senseless words to himself. Nobody came close. Even he was distant from himself. It was as if he was a black hole, a horrible dark magnet that could suck you in and you would disappear. His presence made everything feel so cold and painful. As if everything would go wrong, because he was there. In his dull mud-coloured eyes you could see in one glance his sick soul. You could not dare hug him. Not even Popeye moved, the huge tattoo that covered his arm from elbow to wrist, seemed smaller and scared. If Popeye could, he would leave this cold body. But he had made a pact with his master, so he remained silent. His owner spent the day in his bedroom, only to leave to get more. He was grey and tiny and unfriendly, surrounded by a dark cloud of evil. He was stuck in this cloud and could not see what lay beyond it. He heard whispers and shut his door. Out! Whatever was in his way, was pulled away with harsh movements and mean words. Out! Let me be!
This tattooed man who did not carry a gun on these days, sat down on the sofa to find his bottles, we had emptied and hidden. His shaky hands tried desperately to find what he needed.
He carried black and white inside him. They fought constantly to see which one would get out.
I wished I would never be like him.
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