(1)This Revolution is doomed to fail
Maybe we’re all out there, floating by ourselves in some big black void.
You don’t take notice, passing him by. Perhaps he looks like any other.
Easy to miss, lest you’re deliberately looking for him, somehow aware of his existence. Rugged clothes, tired eyes, ageless, weightless, dreamless. Yes, he’s always there. He had been, from the very dawn of time.
Don’t feel bad.
No one pays attention anymore to the smelly man crouched over the pavement. Of course you would overlook him when you’re hurrying towards your very important job, not sparing the one second it takes to spare him some petty change. They all do. The Rich and the Poor, women, men and children alike, tourists and business people, drunkards and bigots, they scan past him.
Besides…he’s always there, you know. It’s not like he’s going anywhere. It’s not like you’re missing your only chance to show kindness towards an unfortunate soul. Come tomorrow, he’ll still be there.
Every sunset, every sunrise, the beggar would stand still. A living statue, with an opened box near him. Hoping. Maybe today his song of pain would finally be heard. Each time he feels a misplaced glaze on this wavy skin, he’d light up, but alas! Glassy eyes never rest upon him.
Despite this blatant rejection from the world, he would not budge.
Gradually, people grow busier and blinder, hurrying towards impossible dreams. The beggar is the only one not keeping up with the Change.
Invisible? Yes. Forgotten? Sure. But he won’t move away from the dirty sidewalk.
Strangely, he doesn’t seem particularly interested in food, clothes or shelter. He doesn’t want money. Never did.
In the days of before, people would still look at and around each other. Such were the times, when people were paying attention to the world they were living in. Perverted voyeurs.
Back then, people’s eyes weren’t yet glued to the screens. They were still able to see the surroundings. In those days, sometimes, by a small mistake of circumstances, you might notice the man asking for a split second of your attention.
Sometimes, someone would slip the beggar some coins, a piece of bread. His old hands would just push everything away.
If only you would look closer, you might see it. It’s in your hands — the power to set him free.
Let’s say you stopped. Looked at him.
His kind-but-sad eyes would look inside you.
You’d be compelled to give him something. Anything. Even if you, yourself, didn’t have much, to begin with.
And yet, he’d just refuse anything you gave him. Blind and deaf to the screeching noise inside your stomach. Unaware that something inside you demanded you spare something of yours for the smelly man.
Even as his clothes became more rugged, his posture more troubling, his eyes less sparkling. Even as he vanished more and more into the asphalt, becoming one with the thin air, his trembling limbs would still push away your tokens of pity.
You see, the beggar isn’t and never was after your money or your hand-me-downs. He never desired a roof over his head, riches without comprehension, not even a decent place inside society’s maze.
He rejects your petty offers, because he doesn’t care about your world. Or the things you find valuable.
The treasure he’s after is much more scarce, much harder to obtain. Beyond price. Like gold’s dust, but far more valuable. Rare and expensive.
But he’s doomed to be ignored — since no one has the time, or the kindness to crouch next to him and read his sign.
