The Old man at Mcdonald's

Life is one big charade. Just peer through the Cebu crème de la crème’s peephole. They’re awash with pleasantries and comfort – enjoying the dainties of feasts, smiling their perfect smiles into the camera, dressed to kill in fashion that are never less than to-the-minute mod – these people, the quintessential images of wealth, health, and fortune. I don’t begrudge them their lovely times. Most of the time, I’m envious (most especially by the way fate smiles cordially upon them). However, during these trying moments I find myself knotted in queries left hanging for conclusion with regards to the absurd boundlessness of life, and the ephemeral illusions of the less fortunate's torrents which silently fleets away. It mars whatever good things my early broodings have caused me, wiping the curve from my lips. It shows me the lacking in every perfect smile I see, leaving me with but the faint frailties of an early perusal I made. I think of this particular squalor, a gnarled and wracked body along McDonald’s Jones – lamentably dressed, reeking with a stench still unnamed, donning his rag-tuxedo, trash bag belt and mosquito cape – he sits there, hands outstretched to their farthest reach to catch a few coins and a handful of flinches and looks of disgust. In times of loss, whenever I expect people to be there, I can always count on this old man. Come rain, come shine, he’s present – more dependable than some politicians who are the difference in not reaching quorum. I’m sure he has his share of glory days but as of the moment, he’s there begging for alms, begging for mercy, for empathy, and probably peace – an end to his tormenting stature. I am turned from pity to bereavement as I contemplate on the series of emotions I transcend from as I carefully drop a coin into this soul’s eager hands. Would I feel pride? My ego-imp mischievously veers my eyes to turn around and check out if anyone has seen my act of generosity. How about stern cynicism? I then berattle myself for abetting the state of his being a beggar – I silently will myself to turn away and scold myself for his brittle bones look strong enough to support himself to work! Then the guilt inevitably rolls through me like a torrent, and I am moved to ineffable pity. But before I am reproached by any other emotion, forgetfulness visits my door to soothe my weary mind. Then I get out of there, anywhere else but near him, and when I’m home, the unnamed stench is still creeping in the alae of my nose, and that miserable face lingers with me for days to come, until I can’t take it anymore and I make a couple of sandwiches, bursting and take it to that dimly lit crevice to dump them all unceremoniously into his begging hands. But it’s never enough, so I make horrible rhymes, chanting them like a mantra to lull me to a more peaceful state of mind, because nothing I can do will make it right, and all the words I say will still be trite. Dusk will come and still, it will be a sleepless night until dawn claims my restless heart, and the world revolves, uncaring.