My hobo, my hero

There are many traits I don’t like in people. Some of them I have, which I suspect makes me dislike them with some vigour. But there are some traits I really do like: I like people who defend the little guys, people who stand up for what’s right no matter how silly it might make them look. People who fight a cause no one else will – not the cause that everyone will applaud them for supporting. I love people with vivid imaginations and passion for their work.

It was a tough week, this week, and I was feeling quite dejected. I came across a few remarkable people and a few with the traits I don’t like to mention.
The city was awash with vacuous suits as I pushed my way through the crowds today and I cursed every one of them under my breath as I darted my way across the moral wasteland. But then I saw him – the man who would epitomise all I like in some cohorts of the human race.
It was a hobo, a vagrant, a washout, standing in the central park furthering his cause with such passion, such energy, I nearly didn’t notice the uni students across the street yelling about injustice while taking selflies with their iPhones. There I saw this unkempt hero standing in the centre of the park, arms akimbo, fighting for what was right, in his mind at least.
“Go- on, get!” He yelled at the seagulls as the hungry pigeons neared the prized bread. That man was no smelly hobo talking sweet nothings to winged rats – in that moment I could see he had imagined himself the defender of the little guys. He went about his work – his cause – with admirable passion and fervent focus. Yes, you made me laugh, but hobo: I salute you, good sir.
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