You know this man, I know him too; he can be anyone, he can be tall or fat or thin, of any race of any color, anywhere in the world. The man that begs for change, dressed in rags and weathered cloth, a man that knows true shame. For him, the winters come long and the summers pass no quicker. Every day is a struggle, yet he fights through it all the while as he prays to die. I’ve seen these men, these women, these children; condemned to the streets by chance or misfortune. But what I’ve never seen is the man or woman or child that saw in unobstructed grace the true nature of these lost souls. Men that reached out their hands with genuine concern, that offered their eyes or ears or souls, a person that looked not with pity or disgust, but with
…show more content…
He was dirty, a poor man, haggard with sunken eyes and withered skin. He had a deeply furrowed brow and a pitiful expression on his dark ashen face; with bones as dry desert sand, that creaked as he moved, and crumbled as he walked. And I saw him as he walked, soulless, along that harsh dirt path. And for a moment, if even just for an instant, I felt, what I can only call an undeniable and embarrassing contempt for him. Towards that flesh, towards that idea, which had by no means done me any wrong. I was trained this way. No, not because he was Arab, which I remember well - he was -, but because he was unlike me. He was not fortunate in health or in status. He had no titles or designer shoes or luxury cars. Just himself, open for all the world to see; raw, for all the world to judge. But most of all, for that sole and undeniable fact that he had less than me, we often look down on those that do. I never felt so disgusted at myself, so ashamed of the crudely ignorant thoughts that ran rampant inside my head; and with childish delight they kicked and clawed at my mind- like unwilling prisoners trapped within the confines of my mind. “He’s whats wrong with the world” I found myself thinking. But, no, it was not he who was the problem, it was I, me and anyone else who would dare think lesser of another being. The world is the problem, he's just living in
He was dirty, a poor man, haggard with sunken eyes and withered skin. He had a deeply furrowed brow and a pitiful expression on his dark ashen face; with bones as dry desert sand, that creaked as he moved, and crumbled as he walked. And I saw him as he walked, soulless, along that harsh dirt path. And for a moment, if even just for an instant, I felt, what I can only call an undeniable and embarrassing contempt for him. Towards that flesh, towards that idea, which had by no means done me any wrong. I was trained this way. No, not because he was Arab, which I remember well - he was -, but because he was unlike me. He was not fortunate in health or in status. He had no titles or designer shoes or luxury cars. Just himself, open for all the world to see; raw, for all the world to judge. But most of all, for that sole and undeniable fact that he had less than me, we often look down on those that do. I never felt so disgusted at myself, so ashamed of the crudely ignorant thoughts that ran rampant inside my head; and with childish delight they kicked and clawed at my mind- like unwilling prisoners trapped within the confines of my mind. “He’s whats wrong with the world” I found myself thinking. But, no, it was not he who was the problem, it was I, me and anyone else who would dare think lesser of another being. The world is the problem, he's just living in