Lonely.

Everyday I see this homeless man with his two dogs. One white and the other black. He sits on the floor and reads a book. Sometimes eats a snack, if he’s lucky. His face laced with long, dirty, blonde locks. He wears a grey beanie.

Some of us give money to the homeless because we feel bad or sad when we see them. But the act giving them money is just to make us feel better of ourselves. Not because we want that person to eat, or get a new hat to fight of the cold, or get a pair of new socks. We just give them money so we can feel better. Maybe so we can feel like that bad thing we did yesterday was forgiven. I’m not sure if this is true. It’s what I hear/read from the television and the internet.

He seems like a nice man. There was a fresh, deep cut on the bridge of his nose. Probably the aftermath of a drunken man punching him in the face, or some wannabe tough kids giving him a hard time. There were more scars on his forehead, lips and chin. But those weren’t the things that caught my eye. It was that he always had a smile whenever I walked pass him. His dog sleeps under his green blanket. He reads a black hardcover book. His eyes were large, sad and friendly

I took a walk tonight. I felt… off. Out of place. I figured I’d stop by the late shop and buy some energy drinks to justify my absence from the house if I were asked why I was missing. I saw the homeless man. Sitting down. Eating a cold pie. Reading a book. When I walked out of the late shop with my drinks, he looked up and smiled at me.

I gave him money. The largest note I had.

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~ by deartragedy on October 11, 2011.