by Szilvia Adler

Created on: June 30, 2010

I wonder why that homeless guy got himself floating on the streets, looking into garbage bins, one after another, for some edible food – without being aware or without caring of its toxicity or expiry date. He doesn’t have choices. He eats what he finds. He lives where it is suitable for him, under a bridge on rainy days, on a bench on peaceful and warm nights. Or simply, he just lies down on the ice-cold stone pavement in the middle of winter, curled up in his thick, checkered jacket with a bag under his head, hands tucked within the arms of the jacket. So he waits.

A choice is given, but it’s superficial; does not envelop every angle of the problem.

His condition is worse than my dog’s, which I take to the vet regularly. How long could he be doing this? I don’t wonder; I don’t give a shit. I live where I do, and haven’t got a worry when it comes to dealing with homelessness.

How on earth could he get so low anyway? Why should I bother when I know I will not end up like him? I donate to organizations of such kind; I’m done with it and I’m done worrying about it. The political system and lives of others, bereft of hope, are not my department to consider; I’m busy untangling the bands along my road.

How about him? How far away is he from narcissism? Or he doesn’t even consider it?

Course you don’t need to be homeless for having hunting impulses. It’s a problem wider, entailing a larger scope of humane societal discrepancies.

An outcast exists in many forms; homelessness is just one of the noticeable ones.

He’s got a man’s bicycle and a good jacket on. The lights along the side of the bridge shine on his face, illuminating it.

He’s bicycling upward, whereas I’m moving in the opposite direction. He rides the bike sternly, heavily, looking straight ahead.

He’s equipped with, presumably, all of today’s goods.

He rides austerely and with a fixed direction in mind with a boom box fixed fast on the front of his bike.

He’s a bum. He rides his bicycle with a boom box he’ll either keep or sell. He’s got a direction in mind; a place to return to, be it under a bridge or a shelter or beside trash cans.

He rides his bicycle with twinkling eyes.

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