I look outside my car window and observe the scenes of futility, reality and fate: An elderly woman with all her belongings on the side of road and her hands on her head; a man drunk senseless, threatening to cross an intersection; A single mother with filthy bags littering the stroller she pushes for miles; A single father shares the same hand on the other side of my route; A young man sleeps on a mattress next to a dump; A gypsy and her son lobby with smiles and a corrupt means to surviving; The man in the convertible next to me stares ahead grimly, battling guilt no one can see. A tragic masterpiece. Fallacy interwoven with truth and reconciliation. Where everything is the polar opposite of how it appears. It’s been said to never judge a book by its cover. Because skin covers the bodies of entities that breathe, and bodies hold what should be perceived warily: the hearts of deprived souls. They see not with their eyes, but with their hearts. They live life seeking how to live. Some few-letter-words hold so much worth: love and life. Yet they are just words created by mere men. We invent words and phrases to define what we strive for and accomplish on this earth where we think not of whom the land came by. Such trite complacency and a semblance of control. Control is a mysterious weapon of choice. It exists only in the minds of those who do not possess it. The wealthy man next to me is bound by more constraints than I and the man lying next to that trash bin even less so. Still outer appearances suggest a hierarchy with success above all. And so I wonder as I close my eyes to breathe it all in: to ponder what it means to live again, inevitably. I tip my head back into the passenger seat that I sit and look within myself to comprehend what surrounds. How foolish we have been; to forfeit what is for what invisibly destroys.