Every morning, on my way to college, I am reminded of a discomforting truth; a woman, aged about twenty one, with a baby in one arm, and a bowl in the other, stares longingly at passers-by, wanting money to feed her child. Part of me wants to help her; the other part gropes for a sordid excuse to ignore her plight and keep walking; I don't look her in the eye as I do this; her eyes are a reminder of the grim reality of our daily lives that I so desperately want to avoid, and also of my utter selfishness and insensitivity. The first time I saw her, I tried to reason for and against my refusal to help. She looked quite capable of fending for herself; was this just an easy way out? Or was she a victim of domestic abuse?- was her husband an irresponsible man? Was he even alive? What if I don't help her? My act could be a significant cog in a wheel of refusals, and rid a young mother of hope and faith. To the contrary, why do I need to feed such hope? Am I not perpetuating an illusion of mankind's "goodness"?
Rationalizing doesn't help. You can't reason against the instinct and want of a mother. I was being a coward. Isn't time a poetess? She thrills you with the poetic rhythm of highs and lows; your life is a tragic ballad one moment, a romantic sonnet the next. What keeps you from enjoying such artistry? It's the conscience. Your memory is like a bayonet; your conscience will use it to stab you, over and over again, reminding you of your misdoings; the greater the guilt, the more recurrent such memories are. Sigh! I wish the world were a simpler place.
