There’s a homeless man that sits outside on a painter’s bucket every night at Grand Central. I must have passed by him a 100 times now. Not once has he begged. Not once has he put out a sign for help or a even a cup to collect change.
This guy is different.
We’ve connected eyes only a few times, never saying a word nor a nod, just an acknowledgement that we both exist. That silence and his consistency to sit in the same location every day is honorable. His value increases each day I walk by him. But it’s not about the money.
There’s always a book next to him. Maybe he just wants to collect ideas. Maybe he’s waiting for the day I finally decide to open up and give him a few dollars, proving that his game of reverse psychology worked. Whatever be his end-goal, his silence and stillness is more powerful than any words or empty hands.
Introverts always get misunderstood.