You’re defensive when you’re honest—passionate.  Passionate for the truth.  You believe in what you say, and you want others to believe it.  Liars are on the offense.  Trying to get something by you.  Or lying in wait for your temper of the injustice to get the better of you.  Liars are predators.  Honest men are prey.  And it’s a shame when it’s wasted.  When your passion is wasted.  Wasted on people that won’t believe you even though they know you’re telling them the truth.  Some people don’t want the truth.  They just want the emotion.  Emotion is their truth.  And they feed on another’s passions.  The sacrifice what’s sacred.  Not the nature of the sacrifice, whether there’s truth there or not—no, it’s merely the control of seeing it played out.  The blood.  The sweat and tears.  The energy.  Misspent for someone else’s diversion.  The passionate are controlled by their passions.  Not sure where they’re going.  But someone is.  The manipulators.  The schemers.  With all their petty plans turned back on themselves when the roles reverse, as they always do.  It’s the pathetic fallacy in the dynamics of all conversations—human nature—when one person feels and the other merely observes the feelings, like their watching some inanimate object, and they attribute themselves to what they’re watching.  Like angry waves.  With the choice to be kind and benevolent, remembering their own feelings, or proud in their deceit when they’re love has grown cold. 

David wasn’t sure where they were going.  He just knew he was following a wino, someone without a home, who may or may not have what he sought.  Deep down he wondered if it would be a waste of time, and he speculated on the contradiction of this walk, what would be the moral of this man’s story.  Because he was the one with the money begging.  He was the honest man being led by his passions, willing to lie to get what he wanted.  And so he listened to the man’s story even though he didn’t want to.  He didn’t search out the passion in it.  Whether it was truth or not.  All he really wanted to do was return to his wife, and not empty-handed.  And only when the story was ended did he begin to relate it to himself.

“A buddy of mine told me his story over a bottle of Thunderbird we were sharing, this last Friday night.  He lives on the streets now, like me, but he was once like you—he had a wife and a home, a steady job… and maybe you can tell me.  You can tell me what you would have done if you were in his shoes…