There you are crouched over in a corner of the tram, murmuring to yourself with the occasional grunt here or there. Covered in your prison tattoos, what an interesting tale you must have to tell. Your only belongings in a small, dirty, coloured backpack. You rock back and forth and touch your face all over with your dirty stained hands. People stare. They stare and they stay away, they fear you, they judge you, they pity you. I don’t fear or judge or pity I just think, how? How did this happen? How were you forgotten ? Did society fail you? Were you not loved? Not supported? Not encouraged?
Someone failed you, something happened to you and it isn’t fair. Like an illness that strikes people down from nowhere, why you? Why were you dealt this hand?
The world failed you, the people who were meant to love you, failed you which meant you were forgotten and you inevitably failed yourself. I think of you as a boy, running and playing unaware of the life you would lead and now time has passed, your tattoos and skin scars from the life you have led. You are old, frail and alone, your only freedom from this hell is death. I hope your last days, months and years treat you more kindly and compassionately than what you have experienced so far. I hope I see you tomorrow and each day in the tram. I do not fear, I do not judge, I do not pity.