The man

On the way to my dance lesson, I’d pass by him; sitting… or whatever you call it that he does in his chair selling those bingo tickets to passer-by whilst at the same time begging for money with a hat in his left hand. His hair, a dirty and dying color, balding with his age. His skin, thin and wrinkling, with veins clearly visible from the surface. A man, at the lowest level of the society, ignored and shun by others… Yet he is more man than any of my fellow males.

His body from hip down is missing.

Imaging being him. Never able to have sex with someone, nor enjoy a good old pissing in nature, let along even understanding what it feels like to move his body with his legs… Yet he swallowed his shame, and bared all the stares of strangers to come out and make a living for himself. I wonder, why he lives on. I cannot imagine, what hope he has? Or is he just living, a lump of flesh, due to the need to live?

What are my worries with my dancing compared to his life?