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Description
There are white clouds hovering in the vast blue expanse above. I rise from my supine condition, grab my backpack of stuff and leave the park, ambling to the nearest restaurant. When I've arrived, I am not alone. There are others there too, searching for edible materials. It doesn't have to be nourishing, just something that could give us energy to carry on our pointless lives. I join them in the dark alley—oh, it's dark everywhere now! The alley is darker than other places so some of us have flashlights to guide our food search.

I begin my search with an untouched metallic dustbin. I remove the lid and tear the black garbage bag inside the bin. Gold. Silver. These treasures lay before my eyes. Holding one of them in my hands, I inspect it at every angle. Still good. Like most of the stuff we usually scavenge. It's a massive squander of goods but without this wasting habit of the fortunate ones, we would have nothing. We scavengers are all good people here. Our pockets are empty, most have multiple holes. We don't have cash but we don't rob, steal or scrounge. Holey pockets but holy hearts. We don't need money, the catalyst for corruption. Nor do we really want them. Of course, we want a lot of things. Everyone does.

But we don't need pity.

What people fail to realize is that we don't need what we want. We realize that and so we only acquire what we need. We don't take or ask anything from anybody. We get it ourselves. You need it, go get it. We're independent. Even when people give us, we usually refuse. If they insist strongly, however, we accept it just to stop them from pitying us. We don't need pity. We're doing fine. Sure, we're homeless. We sleep by the streets—or just about anywhere—on cardboard boxes although some don't even need anything to lie upon the hard concrete. But we sleep well. We sleep a deep, dreamless slumber. How many of these people who sleep on lavish beds with puffy pillows and cosy blankets actually sleep well, without any endless ponders and wonders of tomorrow's woes?

I keep the treasures into my backpack. Not all but just enough for me not to starve for a few days. A big bottle that is almost full of drinking water, some fruits and buns. The buns are a bit burnt, but they would still make a sumptuous, light meal. After dawdling among the time chasers who are hustling and bustling around, I sit down in front of an old bookshop at a corner of a street. This is my spot, as I like to call it. I love sitting here. Whenever I'm at my spot, I turn into a wallflower and scrutinize the occurrences around me.

There's a man and a woman walking together with linked arms. There seems to be an age gap between the two lovers. The man's ring finger bears a golden ring while the woman does not. There's a family in a diner. Their mouths are clamped shut. A boy, sitting next to a woman, is finishing his meal. A man is seated in front of them with his fingers knotted to each other on the table. Silence conquers the family but the expressions on their faces seem to say otherwise. Once the boy has the last bite, the woman looks around and summons a waiter. The man offers to pay but the woman fishes for her purse in her handbag and hands a bill to the waiter quickly. She then grabs the hand of the boy and leaves the place with him. The man remains in his seat, calls a waiter and orders something.
I observe these people as they carry on with their lives without my having my own life. I have got nothing to do. I have no purpose in life. I am homeless. I am free. I am bored. I have nothing. I am nothing. There's nothing for me to have. I live day by day without any difficulties. No thrills, just chill. What's a homeless man to do? Search for something? Get a life? I don't want any of that. If you have something, you can lose it. If you have nothing, however, you've got nothing to lose. I don't want to lose anything anymore. I've lost enough and I've had enough of life.

Why not end it then?

I've directed that question to myself a couple of times already. I don't know. It's just that—suicide is not something to be trifled with. You don't kill yourself because you're bored. I don't mind being dead though. I just need someone or something to do it for me—end my life, I mean. Perhaps something like a terminal illness, a tragic accident or murdered.

There's nothing else for me in this world; nothing for us.

Description
There are white clouds hovering in the vast blue expanse above. I rise from my supine condition, grab my backpack of stuff and leave the park, ambling to the nearest restaurant. When I've arrived, I am not alone. There are others there too, searching for edible materials. It doesn't have to be nourishing, just something that could give us energy to carry on our pointless lives. I join them in the dark alley—oh, it's dark everywhere now! The alley is darker than other places so some of us have flashlights to guide our food search.

I begin my search with an untouched metallic dustbin. I remove the lid and tear the black garbage bag inside the bin. Gold. Silver. These treasures lay before my eyes. Holding one of them in my hands, I inspect it at every angle. Still good. Like most of the stuff we usually scavenge. It's a massive squander of goods but without this wasting habit of the fortunate ones, we would have nothing. We scavengers are all good people here. Our pockets are empty, most have multiple holes. We don't have cash but we don't rob, steal or scrounge. Holey pockets but holy hearts. We don't need money, the catalyst for corruption. Nor do we really want them. Of course, we want a lot of things. Everyone does.

But we don't need pity.

What people fail to realize is that we don't need what we want. We realize that and so we only acquire what we need. We don't take or ask anything from anybody. We get it ourselves. You need it, go get it. We're independent. Even when people give us, we usually refuse. If they insist strongly, however, we accept it just to stop them from pitying us. We don't need pity. We're doing fine. Sure, we're homeless. We sleep by the streets—or just about anywhere—on cardboard boxes although some don't even need anything to lie upon the hard concrete. But we sleep well. We sleep a deep, dreamless slumber. How many of these people who sleep on lavish beds with puffy pillows and cosy blankets actually sleep well, without any endless ponders and wonders of tomorrow's woes?

I keep the treasures into my backpack. Not all but just enough for me not to starve for a few days. A big bottle that is almost full of drinking water, some fruits and buns. The buns are a bit burnt, but they would still make a sumptuous, light meal. After dawdling among the time chasers who are hustling and bustling around, I sit down in front of an old bookshop at a corner of a street. This is my spot, as I like to call it. I love sitting here. Whenever I'm at my spot, I turn into a wallflower and scrutinize the occurrences around me.

There's a man and a woman walking together with linked arms. There seems to be an age gap between the two lovers. The man's ring finger bears a golden ring while the woman does not. There's a family in a diner. Their mouths are clamped shut. A boy, sitting next to a woman, is finishing his meal. A man is seated in front of them with his fingers knotted to each other on the table. Silence conquers the family but the expressions on their faces seem to say otherwise. Once the boy has the last bite, the woman looks around and summons a waiter. The man offers to pay but the woman fishes for her purse in her handbag and hands a bill to the waiter quickly. She then grabs the hand of the boy and leaves the place with him. The man remains in his seat, calls a waiter and orders something.
I observe these people as they carry on with their lives without my having my own life. I have got nothing to do. I have no purpose in life. I am homeless. I am free. I am bored. I have nothing. I am nothing. There's nothing for me to have. I live day by day without any difficulties. No thrills, just chill. What's a homeless man to do? Search for something? Get a life? I don't want any of that. If you have something, you can lose it. If you have nothing, however, you've got nothing to lose. I don't want to lose anything anymore. I've lost enough and I've had enough of life.

Why not end it then?

I've directed that question to myself a couple of times already. I don't know. It's just that—suicide is not something to be trifled with. You don't kill yourself because you're bored. I don't mind being dead though. I just need someone or something to do it for me—end my life, I mean. Perhaps something like a terminal illness, a tragic accident or murdered.

There's nothing else for me in this world; nothing for us.