He’s just a poor, uneducated man. Poor; so they pity him, or spit in his face. Worthless, they label him. All his life, he strived to be a good man. Yet however hard he tried to befriend people - to be there for them, they could never return the same commitment. Simply put, he was trying too hard. He can see it now. In this world, there are two types of people: there are those who are lucky in life, and there are those who work for life.

A worker, that’s what he is. He’s been working all his life. Whilst happiness and good fortune casually strolled into other people’s hands, he had to work for every inch of luck. They say that fate decides everything, but he refuses to accept. He can make his own luck, he thinks.

A defeated soul is to surrender all you have. Never give up hope. That’s what the eternal optimist, the pure idealist says. Optimistic people: what a comical bunch. In a dark room, they can see the light that’s clearly not there. Yet somehow, they always look for it: the light.

The defeated souls of this world walk a long, lonely tunnel of torture and pain. At the end, they are promised light, but the end of the tunnel is a long way away. All they see is pitch-black darkness. And beyond that: Death.

If you let yourself get defeated before the fight, then you’ve already lost the fight. He’s beaten beyond words: a couple of minor wounds picked up along the way remind him of the sacrifice he paid for being a strong person. He had to hurt people first to protect himself. That’s the way things go: either hit them, or get hit by them. Not much of a choice, he knows this - but he sure as hell won’t just sit back and watch his own death. At first, he let them hurt him, but after a while, he decided to strike back.

His heart is dying already though. Like nature goes through the seasons, so does his heart. Except with his heart, it needs not go through all four seasons. He wouldn’t be exaggerating to suggest that the only season he passes through is winter, and then winter again. His heart grows colder by the hour, by the day. Eventually, he will have been exposed to the coldness so much that he stops feeling the pain, the sensation. That’s when he knows that he will feel nothing. Nothing but emptiness. That’s what his heart is: a vessel for nothing.

The dark world: where people suffer all the time. The poor cry for money, the dying cry for life. But nobody can hear them. Their saviours walk past, barely acknowledging them. They know they exist, but they avoid looking at them, seeing them, hearing their cries. Occasionally, a beggar may try to cling onto a passer-by’s leg, only to have themselves scolded, and then flung back to the side again. On the side. Inside, out. The outsiders.

Discarded, made redundant by their own inadequacies. Their would-be saviours echo their sentiments with hatred and disrespect. Worthless, they say. Hopeless, they think. People need to help themselves before others can help them. But how can they even think about helping themselves when nobody else will even give them the time of day? They want to help themselves, but they need to be given the opportunity, the freedom, and the means to do this.

But people are intrinsically selfish; they care for nobody but themselves. If there was ever a fire, the first thing they would fear for would be their own lives. Every person for themself, they say. You defend what’s yours, and we defend what’s ours.

Everything else in life then has to be earned. You win people’s trust by demonstrating goodwill and loyalty. You win people’s respect through the highest achievements and humbleness. Money, you work for. Life, you preserve.

All things end though. At the end of the long dark tunnel, all the things you acquire, all the memories, all the friends you made - they all disappear into nothingness. Everything into nothing.

Like the vanishing trick. Rabbit into the hat. Wave goodbye.

The poor man is a great man in disguise. Similarly, a magician is just a clever illusion. The poor man is never blinded by money. The poor man is a sinner before he has even committed a crime. Misread, and misjudged by the majority, he values life. The poor man is a humble person, knowing his place in life. He walks alone, strong. He relies on himself, and each day that he lives proves that he has accumulated strength: mentally as well as physically.

One day, he will be able to leave behind all of this. Presently, a young girl tugs at his trousers. She’s asking for some spare change, holding her little hands out to him, lips quivering, body shaking, and puppy eyes that look like they could burst into a river at any moment. He looks at the three coins he picked up this morning. He sighs before handing them over to her, smiling weakly. The little girl smiles back, before taking the money and trotting back home, carried along by her tiny legs. This suffering. It pains him. He’s not a bad man, but the world is so unkind to people like him. The money-makers strut about, stinking like the money they are made of. They have total disregard for more important things in life than money.

Money isn’t everything.

Right now though, he wouldn’t mind having some on him. To get some food, something to fill him up. Something to give him energy, life. He has no purpose. Instead, he wanders across a quiet couple. They’re in their early thirties, but life has been harsh to them - they look a lot older than thirty. The wrinkles overshadowing what were once young, fresh faces. The poor man approaches them, and kneels down in front of the couple. He has nothing in monetary terms that he can offer them. But he has something better to offer them - he speaks a few kind words. Encouragement.

“Bless your kind heart, young man,” the lady says. Her husband nods, and smiles too.

The poor man tries to smile back, but lacks the necessary energy. He nods politely instead, offering a tentative wave to acknowledge them before getting up and continuing along his way.

Into darkness he enters - because that’s where the light is.