Collecting Treasure

This is a short piece of spiritual fiction that I was inspired to write after passing by a homeless man lying in front of an ATM one evening in the Spanish city of Granada.

Entering the alcove off the main street, I saw the homeless man by the light of the flickering streetlamp. I had come to collect my treasure but this poor soul was lying in front of the entrance, asleep on a bed of flattened boxes and covered only by a tattered white blanket. I slipped by as quietly as I could, hastily keyed in my four-digit code and withdrew the notes from the money-dispenser. But as I was placing them into my pocket, the man lifted his head.

I’ve struggled ever since that moment to recreate the image of his face in my mind. At times, I’ve pictured light brown locks flowing across smooth cheeks and a chiselled jaw. At others, I’ve imagined an atlas of wrinkles set on rough skin beneath sparse grey hair. I have always, however, clearly recalled one feature – his eyes. The pure white of his eyeballs reminded me of a star in the night sky, the crystal blue of his irises of an approaching galaxy, and the deep black of his pupils of the mysteries of the universe. Looking into his eyes was like beholding the cosmos – not a cosmos painted by an omnipotent artist, but rather one formed from the unique and extraordinary brushstrokes of each and every human life.

I discerned in the failing wintry light of that moment that this man and I were one – that our hearts beat with the same blood and our lungs inhaled the same air. When he was turned away from the homeless shelter, there I was turned away too, and when he walked the streets to keep warm as the moon rose, there I walked too. So, with the machine blinking behind me, I resolved to hand all my riches to my companion. For what use is the wealth of men on the boulevards of heaven? And does worse befall the beggar in the alleyways of hell?

Yet how could I dispose of my entire life’s savings based on a mere feeling, a feeling that had captured my heart for just a split second and that the other passersby didn’t seem to share? The moment called for caution, for the judicious weighing of where my wealth would deliver the greatest good, not the reckless abandon to which so many succumb. After all, success never came from splashing in puddles or grasping at distant rainbows. No, to climb the branches ever skyward, to reach a lofty station in this life, one needs a sure footing above all.

So I chose to search the man’s eyes for evidence, for some sign that my proposed course of action flowed not merely from the impulsiveness of love, but also the prudence of logic. But on my second glance, I no longer found the welcoming embrace of the universe – instead, I saw all-too-human colours. The glazed white of the man’s eyeballs was no longer a luminous star but an alcohol addiction, the mellow blue of his irises was no longer a galaxy but a cycle of joblessness, and the dim centre no longer illuminated the universe’s mysteries but a history of crime. The eyes which had earlier hinted at wonders now threw me onto a path of error.

I still felt for this man, of course I did, for how can one not hear the cries of a fellow being? But my sympathy was now of an intellectual nature, no longer governed by the whisperings of my heart but by such impermeable realities as the freezing point of water and the setting of the sun in the west. I saw that this man had a physical form consisting of a torso, four limbs and a head, and I deduced from this that he must also be human. He was therefore, in theory, as deserving of shelter and warmth as I, and I lamented that this was not so in practice.

But it wasn’t so and, in reality, I suspected it could never be so. For we were both human, yes, but to my mind we were also different; as different as the prince and the pauper, the businessman and the street busker, the sun and the moon. He’d kept company with thieves and drunkards; I, with respectable society. He’d lived a life of crime; I had kept within the bounds of the law. He hadn’t worked even a day; while I had toiled mightily for my riches.

I didn’t have the hardness of the passing multitude in my heart. I simply wondered if my generosity would be misplaced – whether this man might funnel my money into sin instead of shelter, whether there might be more needy beggars sleeping in more needy streets, whether I might better serve humanity by donating my time at the local church. And, at the end of this long and tiring day, I reminded myself too that the treasures in my vault were not this man’s but mine, and one must always render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s.

I looked down at the homeless man with pity etched on my face. For he was hungry and thirsty and being buffeted by the winds of the night. Yet it was not for me to save him, not for me to sacrifice my comfort for his small joys, not for me to play God in a world of men.

The first snow of winter heralded my time to depart. Turning to look at my fallen friend one last time, I noticed a twinkle coming from the depths of his dilated pupils. But as it flickered and was gone, I decided that it had been a reflection not of his soul but merely a streetlamp.

I left the alcove and walked on, my treasure safely in my pocket. But when I came to rest by the fireplace of my home later that night, two empty eyes were still impressed on my mind.

To this day, that is where they remain.