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The Hypocrite


I’ve always been mad, I know I’ve been mad,
Like the most of us, very hard to explain why you’re mad,
Even if you’re not mad.

~Pink Floyd

I am an early riser typically in the city before 7 am where I often sit in the Daley plaza enjoying the glory of the morning while writing my morning meditation. She is here again. the homeless woman with eyes closed, in deep conversation with people I cannot see while she pulls crumbs from a bread roll and throws toward her feathered companions. Pigeons, the winged rats of the city.

In the early morning the Daley Plaza it is normally me and them, us, we, two souls crossing beneath the behemoths built by man, hives where worker bees work to fill the pockets of the wealthy.

I often wonder, have I been made an early riser to interact with the lonely people of the morning? Is my purpose on this planet to engage with the outcast, the disenfranchised, the homeless so they feel seen, heard, valued? Is she a flower I am supposed to pollinate with the love of the universe?

Why am I reluctant to interact with her? Why the angst? Must I always exist in a duality of not doing what I should be doing and doing what I should not?

I walk away from the homeless woman toward my hive, a hive where I preach the inherent value of all people, where I help my colleagues reach their potential. Yet I avoid interaction with the homeless woman speaking to the wind.

Is it a hypocrite that dwells in this shell?

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