When a person is just another serial number.

Flipping their lives on my hands, I felt powerful and yet wrong. God-like and at the same time, cruel. Perusing their smiles, trying to judge whether it's sincere or just a fake gimmick. Trying to find that condemning bit of information so that I could toss them aside. A lack of height here or a lack of experience there or a lack of smile on another. Anything to censure, anything to damn. When I finally found the final three, I smiled. Another task finished, I figured. I might be delivering salvation to one of them. I might be their saviour. And yet I couldn't forget the many others that I rejected. For every one I chose, four or maybe five were cast aside. It's not suppose to be this way. Slavery should have been gone decades ago and yet here it is. The only difference is instead of whip, money. Instead of guns, poverty. Instead of a mustachioed gunman, a slick businessman. The same wolf only in a different clothing. More dangerous perhaps. No, I'm pretty sure it is. This is sad, a hope for a better life pinned on a couple of words and a pretty picture, framed by questions and broken answers. This is sad, one person, one human being, reduced to a serial number. Catagorized, catalogued, and put to display. This is sad.