He didn't need to sit cross-legged on a street corner every day. He didn't need to strum a shabby old guitar and sing. Nor did he need the bits of loose change that were dropped into his upturned cap by passing strangers. It was his choice to sleep in a filthy rat infested night shelter alongside those that had no choice. In the depth of the night whilst the others slept, he would creep around and leave the few coins he had collected beside them. When they woke to find them, they had no idea from where they had come. But find them they did, every morning, often accompanied by some bread or fruit.
After his parents were cruelly taken away by a tragic accident he had inherited untold wealth. He had no other family, and he was never one to form friendships. He’d led a charmed existence. He was to win at every turn of life’s corners and he felt a deep guilt, but money can’t buy happiness. A review of his life thus far disquieted him. So when the revolution within him surfaced, he resolved to dedicate his life to those to whom life had been cruel; those upon whom the sun did not shine. He became a new person, an unseen guardian angel; his generosity knew no bounds. Bit by bit everything he owned was handed out to charities that supported the homeless. Anonymously.
One day he disappeared. No one missed him. After all he was just another down and out.