Curbside Reflections

I take a twenty-minute jeepney ride every day on my way to school. There's an old abandoned house that I pass by which I always notice. Its walls are spray-painted with graffiti and its windows are boarded up with planks of wood. Apart from the dilapidated appearance of the house, what catches my notice about is the old man whom I usually see sitting on the floor of the front porch.

The old man is a scavenger. He has long, unruly hair and his skin is covered with dirt and grease. His clothes are tattered and his feet are bare. He could've been any other homeless person on the street except for one thing. I always see him -- sitting on that porch with sheets of paper on his knees and a pile of pens on his side -- writing.

He chooses to write. I bet a lot of people would disapprove of a tramp who spends his whole day writing and not doing anything constructive. But what if writing is all he wants to do? Shouldn't he be given credit for just going after what makes him happy and complete?

Maybe in his realm of reality, nothing is as important as being able to put his thoughts into paper. Nothing else. Not food, not shelter, not clothes. Absolutely nothing else. How many of us sane people display that intense passion? Maybe sanity is just a scapegoat for cowardice. That convention is not normalcy but just the politically correct label for taking the easy way out.

Because if you love something, there should be no question in your heart nor your mind. You just take the leap. You just sit right down with your pen and paper, unmindful of your personal state and the rush of people passing by and judging you.

I envy him as hell.