It takes someone like me to make you question your beliefs. it takes someone like me for you to measure your prejudices. If takes someone like me to make you count your blessings. It takes someone like me to make you pause and take stock of your life. It takes someone like me to make you truly envious. A mad man like me. A mad man like me, sitting on the median, undeterred by the heavy traffic - traffic that's making you edgy, jumpy, impatient, because you are going somewhere. I'm not. Just sitting here, armful of garbage - garbage you can't quite decipher from the corner of your eye. Yes, the corner of your eye. To turn around and look at me, to turn that neck, would be to acknowledge me. Validate my presence. And you'd rather not. So you don't know what I hold under my arm. It could be a bunch of cardboard pieces or a brown whale. You wouldn't know. But what you do know is that I'm talking. I'm talking to you, him, her, they, them - I'm talking to everyone passing by. I'm talking, but you're not listening. I could be telling you how to win the lottery, I could be telling you how to get that promotion, I could be the voice of God. But you won't listen. So it doesn't make a difference. Perhaps, if I sat on the steps of a holy place, I'd be a prophet. You're afraid to look me in the eye - because suddenly, you'd look absurd. Enclosed in a shapely box of metal, hands behind the wheel, burning life and fuel to get to some place that makes you enormously unhappy. You've sold your life to make a living. You are chained to the system, while I sit here on medians during rush hours that siphon the hours of your life away, talking about being free to a world that could never understand what the word means. Career. Family. Religion. Society. Chained. Who looks mad now, huh?
It takes someone like me to question your humanity. It takes someone like me for you to stop in your tracks and assess how little you care. It takes someone like me, stopping a bus because a wounded pigeon skitters on the road, confused by the unfamiliarity of this terrain. A retard like me, who works a phone booth in this day and age of mobile phones, to chase a pigeon on a busy road, hold it gently and take it away to safety. Stupid, retarded me who can't string enough words for a sentence. Ineloquent, tongue-knotted me whose vocabulary is made up of grunts and snorts, trying to tell you why I did something so dumb as save a pigeon - you don't understand a word, of course. Ugly me, who'll never look like a hero, except to that pigeon whose trembling heart turned to water in my hands. While you just watched on, weeping for your lost whatever-it-is-you-think-you've-lost. It takes someone like me with nothing to make you realise you've lost something unaccountably precious.