I once sat in an expensive restaurant, not because sudden wealth had slipped into my pockets, but because a friend invited me, claiming, “once in a while can’t hurt.”
There, a middle-aged man in a suit so immaculate that even dust refused to cling to it complained about his overcooked steak. “This is an assault on culinary art!” he declared, as if he were facing the deepest existential tragedy. The waiter nodded, smiled stiffly, and hurried to replace the order, a motion so smooth it seemed rehearsed a thousand times.
I smiled. Not at the man, but at the absurdity standing before me. A few blocks from that restaurant, on a cracked sidewalk, an old man sat slumped against a wall. His clothes were tattered, his eyes weary. He stared at passersby not with a plea, but with a quiet question: How can we inhabit the same world yet walk in two different realities?
I wondered: Is life like this restaurant? Some casually peruse the menu, dictating how they want the world to serve them. Others? They aren’t even allowed inside, never handed life’s menu, left to accept whatever the world’s kitchen throws at them.
Of course, some say, “That’s the law of nature!” As if humans aren’t the ones who built these systems, but mere victims of rules that fell from the sky. I imagined if He were here, He might gaze at the wealthy and sneer: You all have the freedom to choose, yet strangely, none choose to share.
I ended that dinner with a bitter taste. Not because the food was lacking, but because I knew that after leaving, I’d still walk past the old man on the sidewalk. Worse, I knew he’d still be there tomorrow.
As I stepped outside, the night air felt colder. Or perhaps it was just the discomfort of witnessing such sharp contrasts in reality.
The old man remained on the sidewalk, his eyes vacant as hurried footsteps flowed around him like water avoiding a stone. I hesitated. What could I do? Give him money? Buy him food? Or pretend not to see him, like most?
In that moment, I remembered Him and his ideas about freedom. He said we always have choices, but choices come with consequences. And here was the consequence: If I gave, I’d feel better, but the world would stay the same. If I didn’t, I’d perpetuate this absurdity.
The old man glanced up, whether at me or by chance, I couldn’t tell. Finally, I spoke words perhaps more foolish than silence:
“Sir, have you eaten?”
He studied me briefly, then smiled faintly. “Already, son. Full from watching people eat.”
His reply drew a hollow laugh from me, not from humor, but from the sharpness of inequality’s irony. I sat down beside him, without reason. Maybe that night, I needed more than an expensive meal; I needed to understand a world wider than a neatly set table.
We talked. About the weather, the streets, about life mocking those who take it too seriously. He shared how he once had a small home on the city’s edge, lost to endless debt. Now, the sidewalk was his home, the sky his roof.
I wanted to say something wise, but what use were words? Advice couldn’t be eaten; platitudes couldn’t warm a body on a cold night. So I just listened.
When I finally said goodbye, he smiled again. “Thank you, son. Not for the money, but for sitting. Rarely does anyone stop anymore.”
I walked away carrying more than an experience. That night, I learned the greatest absurdity isn’t inequality itself, but how we grow accustomed to it.
I walked home slowly. Streetlights cast long shadows, as if the world were merely a play of light and darkness. The city pulsed on, cars speeding, people chatting, lavish restaurants still bustling.
And in that corner, the old man remained, like an ignored part of the landscape.
I knew tomorrow wouldn’t change. People would still enjoy pricey meals without thought, and he’d likely still sit there, waiting for the night to swallow his weary body.
But at least tonight, something shifted, not in the world, but in me.
I’d seen absurdity not as a philosophical theory, but as something alive in every corner of the city, in every hollow gaze of those with nowhere to return. Now, I could no longer pretend not to see.
Perhaps true freedom lies here: not in choosing to care or not, but in realizing that once we see, we can no longer stay the same.
[Image generated with the help of AI]