The Luxury of Relaxation
It's 10:32pm in wet and cold London, with expected lows of 6 degrees Celsius. But I have no worries, snuggled in my soft bed, in my centrally heated home; safe in the knowledge that I did the right thing by voting Labour in today's election. No, I have no worries. I can make myself a coffee, or tea, or anything I feel like, really... I can kick back, and relax.
I have the luxury of being able to relax.
You, reading this in your comfortable position, can relax. I, writing at my leisure, can relax.
Doesn't it make you mad? Why do we get to relax but countless others don't have this choice? As they huddle under their tattered jackets and second hand beanies and try to survive another freezing night. Since when did such a basic human right become a luxury?
It breaks my heart.
Knowing that I will sleep well with a full belly, while not 5 miles away, a man in his 60's will sleep outside a tube station. He is Nicoli, an Italian-speaking old man. Arthritis has twisted his hands, and he walks with a stick, and is all alone in this country. He doesn't know a word of English, so he couldn't tell you if he was missing his full grown child back home.
No, his lot is to stand on a busy high street in the Christmas Season; to shiver and shake in the wind like a leaf; to have gloves but be unable to wear them because of the illness that is swiftly ravaging his autonomy.
That is his lot in life - to die a slow, cold death while you and I shop for presents and sip our coffee and toss the beggar-man a few pennies.
It breaks my heart into a million pieces.
I have the luxury of being able to relax.
You, reading this in your comfortable position, can relax. I, writing at my leisure, can relax.
Doesn't it make you mad? Why do we get to relax but countless others don't have this choice? As they huddle under their tattered jackets and second hand beanies and try to survive another freezing night. Since when did such a basic human right become a luxury?
It breaks my heart.
Knowing that I will sleep well with a full belly, while not 5 miles away, a man in his 60's will sleep outside a tube station. He is Nicoli, an Italian-speaking old man. Arthritis has twisted his hands, and he walks with a stick, and is all alone in this country. He doesn't know a word of English, so he couldn't tell you if he was missing his full grown child back home.
No, his lot is to stand on a busy high street in the Christmas Season; to shiver and shake in the wind like a leaf; to have gloves but be unable to wear them because of the illness that is swiftly ravaging his autonomy.
That is his lot in life - to die a slow, cold death while you and I shop for presents and sip our coffee and toss the beggar-man a few pennies.
It breaks my heart into a million pieces.
It indeed is a sad thing, well written Javo
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