The Pauper

Laying peacefully on his side, in a flattened carton box he uses as a mattress, the world goes by as the pauper slept at the steps of Banco de Oro. It was a sight seldom noticed, for our eyes have grown used to watching these less fortunate souls turn the pavements into their open air bedroom. For some, their sprawled arms and legs are a cause of dismay, an eyesore they have elected to ignore as they went on with their hurried lives. But that early morning, the presence of a pauper a few steps from where I stood became a subject of rumination: of how fate weaves our sullen, sorry lives.

"Tell me your story." I walked closer to take his picture, while a colleague waited at the teller machine for it dispense some cash. He wouldn't answer my question. He doesn't even know I stood next to him, curious as to what difficult life he has.

In my head, I was tempted to craft him a story. A far-fetched one given my immensity to twist a narrative. But then, as my colleague and I were about to separate ways; when I have finally given up writing a fiction that doesn't even encapsulate the pauper's back story, I have resigned to the idea - the cause of my sudden fancy towards the likes of him.

"You could have been anyone," I shudder at the thought before my admission.

"Including the future me."