How Many Good Men

Character. That's where the biggest measurements, truest tests of worth should lie. And yet, 'tis not so. Sometimes, mostly, I believe that it's indeed enough. That being a good man is enough to keep me afloat. Sometimes, rarely, . . . I don't. How many good men die? How many great people, nice guys, saintly women, shining paragons of humanity - are shunned? People don't always look at you with virtue in mind, don't gaze through honor's eyes; too often they look through you, into you, to what you can do for them. Too often they choose, not to see the real source of light in front of them, but instead just the glow of fool's gold; warping your worth to mean usefulness instead of selflessness, utility instead of altruism. Or they misread you entirely; focusing solely on your looks, or your wealth, or your mannerisms, your attitudes; one is chosen, only one is seen - the one made to blemish and demean. Very few gaze on the whole picture, take in the whole work; these are those you treasure. The ones, also, of value, the ones who are what they claim and claim little more than living in a respectable way. But still, in this life, character matters oft too little; gathers all but nothing corporeal. In the end, one must make a choice; tangible wealth, or wealth of pride? What matters to one more - the character of the substance, or the substance of the character? I strive to continue to believe that great people are there; that who you are makes a damn bit of difference. But throughout that strife, ever am I haunted, shadowed, by one ceaseless question. How many good men die? That's it. That's what I want to know. That's what follows and taunts me. How many of them fall, without ever knowing just what they've meant to those they've helped - those they've served, protected, assisted, befriended? Whether it was a much-needed pat on the back, picking up a dropped cane, searching for something lost; or something bigger - a life given, an oath fulfilled, a love or a friendship began and striven for - how many never believe they've made a difference, however slight, never realize what they truly were? How many good men die, having once or more asked a question of their own - am I a good man, was I a good man- without their answer?