What is it you are living for? As you walk down the street of your life, you walk by the blocks known as years. It starts to rain, or maybe it is sunny. Constantly things change in the same ancient pattern. At first you may have been strolling along, and then unable to stop you will be forced to sprint. Maybe now you can stop for one moment, as I speak to you, and I ask; what is it you are walking for? I ask you, because I am unable to answer myself, maybe I look to you for a prospective or justification not visible to me. Why should you answer, you wonder, and I know you will walk on. We do not know each other, and if we do then maybe of latter significance.

As I stroll towards the counter with The economist, I wonder about the woman who barely glanced at me over my passport. She sees hundreds of faces everyday, but are there any she remembers? If she does, do they remember her as well? I receive a phone call, while my thoughts are elsewhere. A face appears from my past, maybe from yesterday, or the week before, I cannot place it. It is the lost face, of a begging child, begging is what it was taught to do. The child sings quietly with shivering teeth. I walk past, as I always walk on. Maybe I had no spare change in my pocket, maybe I did not bother to check. I wonder about beggars, have they life-positions improved with world development? Has the invention of credit cads, closed the car-windows of people driving by?

How can I understand the meaning of existence, as I disregard its morals? In a world where my wealth means their poverty, I have become immune or insensitive. I look around in the gold lounge of Copenhagen airport, and feel indifferent. I realize that it is not our fault. I solemnly believe that in a world of such prominent injustice we can do right, without being righteous, but can we help without understanding? I may send financial aid to various well doing organizations, by way of support, but how can I empathize with the misery of underdeveloped countries as I look out of the window, and a friendly flight attendant serves me champagne? How can our politicians strive to improve third world countries when we cannot understand their situation?

If Socrates was right, and we are all small dots, are some larger than others? Does helping one shivering child born between waste make--- I cannot finish that sentence, without once again being unmoral and insensitive. I know I will walk on with my guilt, shameful for a journey, that shame will blow away. Maybe tomorrow we will both walk on without stopping.