How Does It Look When Pity Is Actually a Judgment
And what does it mean for us, the judging?
A phantom lives in our street.
It’s been almost two years since I moved to my current apartment, but I only saw a glimpse of this urban legend this week. However, I can hear him twice, sometimes three times a week, when his incomprehensible cries periodically pierce through the evening stillness.
This phantom isn’t some mystical creature from nightmares. He doesn’t hunt the mischievous children or rob the apartments. Although he has a veil of unknown wrapped around him, I can’t imagine a scenario, in which he would hurt someone.
He is a harmless old man walking on crutches. I finally confirmed his looks a couple of days ago, when I drove past him around 11 pm. With one hand leaning on his crutch and the other against the bus stop, he was once again chanting into the silent night.
He is a drunkard. Standing in the shadows and abusing the dark sky is his favorite activity.
Apart from his nocturnal identity, I don’t know a single thing about the man. I imagine him as a lonely, hopeless being whose life has shrunk to a single joy — to drink his whole pension away night after night.
I pity him.
