text: I was walking to my car down a city street at about midnight. I had a couple of tamales that tasted terrible. I passed a woman sitting at the bus stop who was humming something to herself. I tossed my tamales in the trash and I heard her for a second start to say something. I turned around and asked what's up. She responded with dejection that she was going to ask if she could have the food I threw away. I apologized, the thought hadn't occurred to me in that moment that someone would be so hungry that they'd want to eat after me. I walked over and gave her a $20. She thanked me but, a few steps later she nearly yelled "Are you serious?". Her tone, her words, her voice still rings in my head. I nodded, unsure of what to do and she began to tear up. It still makes me angry. 1000 people as capable as me must pass her by everyday and do nothing. I didn't hate those people, I just wish we'd pick our brothers and sisters up off the ground. Help them as we're able. The occurrence inspired me so that some number of weekends later I returned to the city center. It was a crisp Saturday morning. Sun was out and breath could be seen in the air. I parked and began to walk. I found a man packing up his bed onto a bicycle basket. I asked him if I could buy him breakfast. He said sure and asked me to meet him at the McDonald's up the block. I was a little dejected as I'd hoped to talk with him on the way, see if I could find a way to truly help. A few minutes later I met him at the McDonald's. He told me what he wanted but, at this point it felt like he just saw free lunch and not the love I was trying to impart. I gave him a $20 and wished him well, letting him order on his own. I continued my walk until I found a man leaning against a light post. He was covered in filth with his head down. I kneeled down beside him to say hello. I asked what was wrong but, he was in no mood for conversation. I asked if I could get him anything from inside and he told me to get him a coffee, with two sugars, one cream, and to mix them up good. I handed him a $20 and wished him well. At this point I was feeling my idealism had lied to me. That these people weren't dying and desperate to be healed. They were nothing like I was when I was laying on the side of that store in the cold drizzle. When the little child asked his mom what was wrong with me and she tried to explain, a tear formed in my eye. I was in desperate pain. When he ran over and handed me a dollar, it reminded me that I wasn't dead yet. I wondered why they didn't react the same. Sometime later, it was two in the morning and rather than wake up anyone trying to sleep, I just rolled down my window and dropped a $20. I wrote a note saying that God loves them. That if the finder didn't need it, to please drop it for someone who did. I prayed it would reach the right hands. The last time I gave it was a box of energy bars. Then buying all the bakery items in a store display and asking they give it to the people in need who come in. I wish I could connect with them. I wish I could heal their broken souls but, all I find are zombies. Brains fried on drugs who've long lost their ability to feel anything. Maybe those people who passed by that woman everyday had become as numb. Maybe they tried to help once but, found the same as I'd found later. The ones who are still alive, still feeling the pain of going hungry, the despair of living with nothing but their souls, their spirits humming on those benches get lost in all the death and yet, they live on. She does, in my memory.