Over Thirty

He couldn't have been over thirty. But, after some time on the street, it becomes harder to guess age. Absorbed in his effort, he put the finishing touches on his intricate chalk design, a glowing mandala. 

His colored chalks lined up neatly above his creation, seven or eight vibrant pastels, some only small nubs left. While carefully making some very thin, white lines, not looking up, he asks "Spare change or food?" Entering the 7-11 without responding, only nodding which he doesn't see, I swing back the glass door to whoosh myself inside. Quickly grabbing the box of eyedrops I came for, then adding a hot dog and pizza slice, before my swift exit.

Handing the artist his food, he replies simply with "God bless you.", and I am saddened that he's so grateful-- why? The art of hunger is a circular misery, uncertain like a daily maze, or labyrynth of curves. Walking home, I'm trapped in a fog of unsettled thoughts and cold air.

Started this year with a vague resolution, something about pushing myself more, needing new challenges, blah, blah. Maybe, with a likely global recession looming, human despair on the rise, the new paradigm is actually "less is more."