The Shattered Picture

Was I mistaken to have thought that the world knew of a common courtesy to treat a person with respect. Am I Naive to have believed that as long as I walked the paths less taken that I would never have to embrace the hard winds that so often knock me over into a stumbling confusion. Yet here I lay, picturing myself with the young man who intentionally tried to take my last breath. We are but two children, conversing about what and/or who we are going to be when we grow up. We are laughing because we feel so invincible to danger, and we just know that we have our whole lives before we ever come face to face to hurt, sickness and defeat. But, now we are terrified, because we know that soon the day will come where all of our fears that we never acknowledged, now become the reality. In an instance this picture is shattered by a deathly pain in my left hand. Should I then try to reach out to him with my right? Perhaps he too could picture that the grass is greener on the other side. Or am I naive to even try. Who would that make me if I just let him die?