The more I walk in the desert, the less I have fear for my existence. My land is dry, no water, no food, people are far away, and my soul thirsts for break away from the earth.
This is a fictional story of the poor and the sick. The poor often think about how to survive, and make ends meet, the sick grieves about how to pass the hurdle of diseases and break the barricades of plague. Often times these two segmented categories are always the victims of death, apart from the cases of home, automobile, and air crash accidents.
The poor suffer for lack of money, food, shelter and all, while the sick feels the pain of illness. I see a young boy picking foods from the bin, chews it and swallows it, the next day he cries of stomach upset, his poor mother gives him herbs because she can't afford to pay the clinic bills. The boy passes through this travail for months, until one day when a neigbour comes to call his mother where she begs for money that her little boy is dead. Unfortunately, the boy died of typhoid.
The sick is lying helplessly on the bed, waiting for a doctor to perform the miracle so that his health will be restored. He thinks in his mind that his life is a gamble if the doctors do not exist. Hopefully he says, that if his health is restored, he would eat all the meals he missed while bed reading.
The poor people are less privileged, and both the poor and the rich are also less privileged if illness sets in. I have heard of the rich die of illnesses, and the poor too. Money cannot buy life, so also poverty can short live a life.
There are people that are miles away from treasure, but the treasured in treasures should help to treasure the lives of the people that are less treasured. Sow seeds in the lives of the less privileged, and the souls shall never forget your good deeds.
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