the fat man asks, “What loves me—pizza or people?”
the philosopher asks, “What loves me—wisdom or people?”
the writer asks, “What loves me—words or people?”
the answers are obvious.
I can spot an actor from a mile away. They are dramatic, and full of self-love.
I can spot a teacher from 100 yards. They are in-charge, with stern features.
I can spot a nurse from a few feet. They have little pockets, and not much sympathy.
I rarely find a person who loves another person.
A man loves his wife, sometimes.
A father loves his daughter, sometimes.
People don’t love other People. They need a reason.
Most of their reasons inspire the opposite:
the hordes of humanity are angry in their cars, honking, cutting each other off in traffic, flipping the bird, anonymously.
Teachers teach kindness, rather than showing it. They are some of the meanest people who ever existed, and I’m including: Dictators, Nazis, and Mother-in-Laws.
Nurses dress in baggy scrubs, and don’t show any cleavage anymore—they offer no spiritual milk to the sick.
Actors want to be celebrities.
People are nice, so they don’t get run-over, taught a lesson, fired, or shamed.
the fat man, the philosopher, and the writer sit in bed
they honestly love what they do
this world will end,
and who will get the credit?