Dear Stranger (3)



To the Stranger who stole my bike,

I have many questions for you. Most of them begin with 'Why' and, actually, the more I think about it... they are not really for you. They are questions you probably don't have the answer to. Beyond “Why did you do it?” to “Why does anybody steal?” and “Why does it hurt so much on the other side?” “Why so much corruption?” And “When will it end?”

You obviously know quality when you see it, but that bike had more value than you could have known by merely looking at it. You see, I'm rather new in this country. Although it is supposed to be my motherland, it stirs precious few sentimental memories in me. In truth, it's rather foreign, and I'm less than thrilled about moving here, land of plenty though it is. My heart craves the chaos, warmth, authenticity, simplicity of the places I left behind. That bike was my comfort, my first, wavering, but real, footstep into the foreign motherland, my two-wheeled companion through the wilderness of unfamiliarity. And now it's gone, carried off in your hands.

Your hands – what else do they do? They’re skilled at good and evil, I imagine. Just as mine are; inflicting pain and bringing joy. Whatever your reason for taking what was mine, be it desperate need, selfish greed, or a drunken fulfillment of a silly dare, I could not be angry with you for long. Anger subsided, making way for grief, and the echoing question, “When will it end?”

For your deed was not the worst of the atrocities in the world, not by far. Indeed, it is already forgiven. And I will certainly survive without my bike. Perhaps you yourself have been a victim of worse. Won't you look with me in hope to the day when these evils are broken under the weight of light and love?

Until that day,
A Newcomer


25/5/2017

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