The Night Watchman
There was a time I lived among people who thought wealth was a synonym for the good life. I watched them spend their lives buying mirrors that only reflected what they wanted to see.
Then one day, I walked away: from the Gold Coast, the trophy blondes, and the medication the rich need to endure their own affluence.
I studied social work with nothing but a family to support.
Sometimes I laughed at the irony: a man who once had access to power now protecting piles of concrete from ghosts.
But something happened in that cold.
The silence stripped me bare.
There’s a kind of mercy in losing everything unnecessary.
The rhythm of my boots on asphalt became a meditation.
The stars above Rüschlikon didn’t care who I used to be.
Bob Dylan sang, “I once had mountains in the palm of my hand, and I threw it all away.”
I understand that line not as regret, but as release.
Because what’s left after the throwing is real.
Now I measure wealth differently —
in mornings when my daughter laughs,
in the quiet trust of Lido, the alley cat curling beside me,
in the knowledge that I don’t owe anyone anything;
not a smile, not an explanation, not a lie.
People ask how to find themselves.
The answer’s simple, but cruel: lose what’s false.
Then watch who’s still standing beside you in the cold.
That’s you.
That’s the truth.