When I sit down to write my Huffington columns or this blog, I try to imagine what it must be like to be truly vulnerable, alone, old, fearful, disabled, socially awkward or rejected, homeless, sick and poor, blind, hurting inside, hungry, taunted, bullied, unloved, depressed to the point of hopelessness, cast aside, heartbroken.
And all the while there is this beautiful country in which people not-like-me seem to have it all...and still complain. And I wonder how that could be...how could such a place pass me by...not see me in its headlong pursuit of wealth and madness. And I start writing to see if anyone out there cares about people like me...the little guy in the shadows of everybody else's success.
I write for those who can't speak. I write for those who don't believe they will ever be heard. I write for those who are afraid they will be heard and punished for their words.
I write to let them know that at least one old guy gets them and wants to give their lives meaning in this beautiful country that is being led by people who have forgotten how to care for, cherish, celebrate and share the gifts meant for all of us.
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