I saw this guy once, stop by a homeless man and ask him why he needed change. The homeless man said, “Because life has been harsh to me, but I carry on.” The man had sneered and kicked the homeless man in the stomach before continuing on his way to wherever he had to be. I had walked up to the homeless man and helped him up then. I held out a crumpled twenty dollar bill, and told him to take it. He had smiled up at me with shiny eyes and told me I was a soldier, a trooper in world of pain. I had asked him how he got in this situation. He said, “I served my country, but my country did not serve me.”

I went home that night, and when I sat on the couch eating my can of chunky, salty beef stew, I turned on my ancient television. The screen had flickered to life, attuned to the news, and I watched. I heard about the double suicide committed by two teens that attended the high school two blocks from my house. I knew one of them. I had seen him walking to school, his feet dragging on the sidewalk, as if the weight of the burdens he carried rested on his very soul holding him back from the joys of life. He had stopped outside the gates of school as I was walking to work and looked at the sky. I smiled at him and called out “Good morning!” He had turned to look at me, and I had paused, just a moment, long enough to glimpse his stormy grey eyes, before he turned away.

“Define good.” He had replied, before walking into the school. The screen of my television flickered as a picture came up next to the anchorwoman’s face.

“Alonzo Gregory was apprehended early this morning, and is now being held in custody. He is being charged with multiple accounts of first degree murder and rape. The number of his victims is undetermined, however authorities believe numbers to be somewhere above twenty women.” I didn't know him, but I heard a girl joking about rape in my favorite coffee shop today.

“Oh, rape’s not that bad, really.” She had said to her friend. “I mean really, it’s the girl’s fault for dressing like a slut anyway.” I had sat at my table and watched as another customer stormed up to her, crashing her shoulder against the girl as she passed.

“Hey!” The girl had cried, glaring at the passing customer. “Watch where you’re going.” The other customer had paused, before turning on her heel, tears in her green eyes. She had glared at the girl, hatred evident in her stare.

“It was my sister’s fault that my dad thought she looked slutty in a pair of sweats and a hoodie. It was my sister’s fault she got pregnant at thirteen, ‘cause he couldn’t be bothered to wear a condom. It’s my sister’s fault that she has three daughters now, right? ‘Cause rape isn’t all that bad, right?” The girl had stared at the crying customer in horror, her pink, glossed lips hanging open as she watched the customer leave.

I followed her outside and held out my hand. “My name’s Dez.” I murmured as she stared at me.

“Julia.” I nodded as I watched her tears drip down her cheeks, crystalline orbs of pain and sorrow carving tracks of despair.

“How old is your sister?” I asked gently, trying not to be too prying. After a beat of silence, Julia had hesitantly told me her sister had just turned seventeen. I nodded, and for a few minutes we stood there staring at the sky. Then I reached into my wallet, and pulled out a shiny, unused gift card.

“I lost my son in a miscarriage two months ago. This card was from a friend for a baby shop about four blocks up the way. There’s two hundred dollars on it.” Then I walked away, leaving Julia with money for her sister and nieces.

The world is a terrible place, and the bad people always seem to thrive in it. Murder and theft, destruction and damage are always on the news. People torch businesses and steal Christmas presents. They rape, and pillage, and spread terror, and yet, somehow we have survived as a race. We have survived attempted mass genocide, we have survived war after war, and we have survived plagues.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m drifting, floating in a world of loss and pain, a world where everything goes wrong. Sometimes, I feel like I will never make it down, that I will just float higher and higher, until I am no longer on the Earth, and people no longer remember me.

But then I see a little boy on Santa’s lap in the mall, and I hear him say “Santa, I don’t want to be selfish, so I won’t ask you to bring more toys to kids in Africa. And I won’t ask you to bring my daddy home from ‘Ghanistan, and I won’t ask for a puppy, or an Xbox. But, can you bring the homeless man on my street corner a wool jacket, so he isn’t cold on Christmas? And can you make my mommy smile again, since she hasn’t smiled in a long time. And if it’s not too much, and if I’m not being selfish, could you bring Josie Adams a new dress with pink sparkles, since she wears the same one to school every day?” Sometimes I see adults cry in the presence of innocent requests from children who perceive too much. And sometimes I go up to angelic little boys who don’t want to be selfish, and I ask if they want to go shopping for a wool coat for the homeless man on the corner of his street.

And then I think that I may not be floating higher, that maybe I’m walking, that maybe I am steady. I think that there is a chance for this world, and that maybe I don’t have to worry about being forgotten.

One day, I ran into that homeless man again, and he asked me if I was still trooping through this world of pain, and hurt, and despair.

I told him I was gliding, dancing past the pain and hurt, and searching out the little lights of hope, and happiness, and angelic boys, and diapers for unfortunate families, and wool coats for the cold. I told him the world may be a bad place, but for those willing to look, there were always sparkles of joy, and hope. I told him humans may be terrible things, but we survive, and while most of us float, some will dance, and a few will lead, showing us there is a chance.

Like that little boy on Santa’s lap, who didn’t want to be selfish for Christmas.