Untitled, as of now.

There's a little boy sitting down in the corner of the street.

He wears threadbare clothes, and he holds his tiny, malnourished sister with one hand.

His other hand is holding a rusty old can. It's jagged edges have already ripped through his skin a number of times now.

The sun is burning.

He raises his left hand, the one holding the can, to his forehead, to block away the sun's rays.

He takes care not to cut himself again. He knows that his parents wouldn't let him use the money to buy band-aids or betadine. "Anyways, it's your fault for being careless,"his mother would say.

And deep inside, he'd agree.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You're in the car, talking to your friend on your cellphone.

You might be talking about a boy. You might be talking about another friend. You might be talking about a project. You might be talking about Global Warming, for all I know.

In between your bouts of talking, you complain to your driver about the temperature.

"Driver, heat up the a.c. It's so hot in here."

You hear someone knocking on your car door. You stop looking, and turn to look.

You see him: A boy of six years, with dark arms that are skinny, too skinny. You see his tattered clothes, too big for his small frame, filled with holes that his mother never thought of mending, too dark and patched with dirt that you can't even see what color it once was. You see cuts and scars all over his body.

You see his sister, who is in the same form that he's in. You see the doll she's holding-a cheap, old, dirty, raggedy knock off, one that you would probably throw away when you see it. Maybe you did, once. And yet she holds onto it tight, as if the world would end if she lost it.

But what leaves a mark on you: Their eyes. Even though it seems as if they received the very worst in life, their eyes show a smile. A smile that expresses both their childlike wonder, and a maturity that you've never seen before.

Maybe you'll think of your brother. His sun kissed arms, arms that were spent playing around. He wears fine clothes-your mother only buys clothes that exude rich. He takes a bath twice a day: One when he gets up, another before he sleeps. Whenever he gets hurt, whether a big cut or a tiny scratch,one so tiny that you start thinking that maybe he's making it up, your mother would place a band-aid-one of those expensive ones, the ones with a cartoon character on them.

The last time you saw him, he was crying because he couldn't find his game console.

Maybe you'll think of you're sister. Her arms-arms that are pale, since your mother will not let her play too long(or at all) outside, because god forbid that her skin turns tan. She wears the cutest, the prettiest, and most expensive clothes-of course, she is a little angel princess. She takes a bath whenever she gets dirty. She never gets hurt, of course. Your mother would scream if she sees a tiny scrape(or imagines one), on her pretty little girl. The last time you saw her she was throwing a tantrum because you're father refused to buy her a dolly. With good reason. She just received an expensive one yesterday.

Or you might think of yourself. You had a fight with your mom yesterday. The reason: she won't give you enough money to buy that totally cool, but totally expensive, and useless item. You know, the one you saw at the mall. You know she will eventually give in, though. That, or you'll ask instead from your father. You know he will.

Sympathy flashes across your eyes-for half a second. Then your face turns robotic, without any expression or emotion, and you'll turn away, and continue on talking to your friend, and complain to the driver about the temperature, like nothing happened.

Indeed, nothing did happen. This happens everyday-a routine that we have all grown accustomed to. We know that if we ignore the person, the beggar outside, he or she will go away. Or maybe we'll give them money, but only so that they'll STOP LOOKING AT YOU STOP MAKING YOU THINK.

And we call ourselves superior beings? What a joke. We can't even help our brothers and sisters in need.

Charity isn't to ignore the person in need, nor to give them money.

Imagine instead if you reached out your hand, and instead of money, offered your sympathy. Or went the extra mile, and went out of the car, and helped them. You know, by doing anything. Anything.

Chances are, they'll run away from you. Or be afraid.

You'll leave, puzzled, wondering, "Why?", and possible forget about it.

They'll leave, crying, wondering, 'Why?", and remember the stranger who tried to help them all their lives.

I wish I could do that. I wish we all could. I dream we could.

But dreaming is for losers, right?

Well let me be a loser.