There is a man who lives in a tent.
He lives in a tent on a tree-lined grass verge on the side of a busy road.
I see him every morning.
I watch through the window of my car as he packs up his tent, carefully folding his home into a bag that he heaves upon his back, carrying it with him for the day.
A human snail.
I feel implicitly guilty.
Guilty that I have a car. A heated home. Running water. A fridge full of food.
Guilty that he has nothing and I have everything.
And yet who am I to compare my everything to his nothing?
Maybe he has everything he needs.
Right there.
In his tent.
And I, the one with everything, is always wanting more.