It’s 8 pm when I am done with work. I get off the elevator, turn to the street, and start walking towards the bus stand. While walking all alone, I realize that this is my life: walking alone is my life. I’m a loner. Perhaps I should make peace with that fact. The idea is too much to take. So I decide to eclipse the crappy thoughts in my head with music. I pull out my earphones and plug them In my ears. The music is offbeat. Zayn Malik is beautiful crooning away in my ears,
“I’d love to hold you close, tonight and always
I’d love to wake up next to you.”
It’s cold, so I tuck my hands in my jacket pockets and walk on listening to the music, trying to push back the troubling thoughts, watching people that pass me: children, people stuck in traffic, shopkeepers … And then I come across a couple of beggars.
The ragged woman is holding her husband in one hand and a begging bowl in another. She sees me with her sad but defensive eyes and starts to beg. I get curious as to why that is man not looking at me. So I concentrate my eyes on him only to find out that he’s mentally retarded.
I see him and the next thing I feel is my heart being overwhelmed by a rush of emotions. My eyes moisten but I hold my tears inside because I don’t want to appear to be a lunatic to the people around. (How I wish it was raining then!)
The man is a lost cause. He could be cured with some psychiatric help, but who would pay for his therapy? Me? A person who’s herself on medication? I could, but I choose not to because I wouldn’t know how to talk to those people, leave alone convincing them that I mean no harm.
I observe him looking at something on the ground and mumbling things. I feel his surrender to life. I feel him devoid of the will to fight, to survive. Then I shift my focus to the woman. I feel her helplessness; her’s is another life full of harsh struggles. I feel her desperation for bringing food to the dinner table. I guess her kids have grown up and probably abandonment the both of them. I feel the feeling of abandonment. I feel how insignificant their life is to them. I feel everything.
I cannot help but connect with them on an emotional level.
Perhaps I feel too much.
Does that make me human, or just a really sad person?
Is being human, being sad?
I guess we’re all connected; pain connects us. Pain is good. Without the pain, there wouldn’t be any sharing and bonding. And still, we’re too proud to share the pain. Why are we so screwed up? Life’s simple: talk, share, bond.
Come out and share your stories. I would feel happy that I’m not the only one going through life struggles.
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