Man Walking on Pear

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Why am I given this measure of plain happiness? Why me, among the millions of hapless souls born into this world of sorrow and pain?

Why these many blessings?

Why the simple pleasure of the passing of my days?


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Why all this love?




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I am not tortured by the images of dirty children digging for food in garbage dumps, nor of them laying on hospital beds, bleeding through the bandages covering the stumps of their arms or legs, or wrapped tight around their fractured skulls. These children are not me. She is not my child there in the smoking wreckage. I understand the nature of this world, its need to grind us up. I'm not naive about the workings. We're all for the boneyard.

But how are there these lost islands of happiness, where some lucky few live out a part of their lives?

It is not due to their small virtues.



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It is an accident of the weather.





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Look around. The wheezy contraption has sailed over your head once more, its blades whirring and clacking.



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You are spared another day.




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