Who pays the Ferryman? In the old myths, no soul crossed the river Styx without an offering. Today, we often leap without looking, ignoring the toll collector at the edge of the water.
But the crossing always has its cost, whether we pay it, or someone else does. Our current governments have a habit of knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing. We are ruled by algorithms and announcements. But we are human - and humans live in the cost.
Wars are dissected by body counts and budgets. Policies are passed with a calculator, and lives are led under a spreadsheet. We know the price of everything. But who still speaks of cost?
Price is clean. Price fits in a column. Price is what politicians debate and treasurers announce.
But cost ? Cost is borne. Cost is lived. Cost is the long, quiet aftermath. And that of course beggars the question: where is the value?
Ours is an age obsessed with measurement. We chart our economies by GDP, our health by calorie counts, our futures by carbon emissions.
When Western forces withdrew from Afghanistan, the price was eye-watering: billions in military hardware left behind. Helicopters, rifles, vehicles.... a tally fit for accountants and news headlines.
But the cost? The cost was trust. The cost was the morale of every soldier who watched allies abandoned. It was the translator left behind, the veteran watching Kabul fall on TV, the public who sensed their sacrifice had been bartered away.
The price was paid in dollars. The cost was paid in dignity.
We debate abortion as policy, procedure, right or wrong. But however one views the issue, it is framed in terms of access, legality, and numbers.
But behind each statistic is a story. The price may be measured in health budgets and clinic fees, but the cost is harder to voice: the silent grief, the moral wrestling, the sense of absence that lingers. For some, it brings relief; for others, regret. For all, it touches something deeper than can be listed in a ledger.
A society that reduces such complexity to numbers robs its people of the space to feel, to reckon, to heal.
We are told the planet demands action, and the price of carbon must be paid. So industry is shuttered, regions are "transitioned," and cities grow richer while towns fall silent.
The price: green tech subsidies, carbon credits, global applause.
The cost? The collapse of manufacturing towns. Generational trades lost. The dislocation of skilled workers, who once built things and now apply for welfare. A culture that once made steel and ships now makes TikTok videos.
Immigration is often sold by its price point: more hands, lower costs, economic growth.
But what of the cost? When communities change faster than they can adjust, when values fracture, when cohesion crumbles, when the civic language no longer holds?
The price might be attractive. But the cost is cultural disorientation, strained schools, diluted trust, and the quiet anger of people who feel unheard in their own neighbourhoods.
War is waged with strategies, targets, and troop numbers. But it is paid for in broken families, PTSD, and the thousand-yard stare of a young man who has seen too much.
Welfare is budgeted in tax policy and economic forecasts. But its cost is lived daily by those queuing at food banks, filling out forms, living under suspicion.
To come back to the beginning:
Price is for Parliament. Cost is for people.
Our age has a habit of knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing. We are ruled by algorithms and announcements. But we are human - and humans live in the cost.
If we do not learn to reckon cost alongside price, we will continue to make cruel bargains with ourselves. We will count savings while losing souls. We will win balance sheets and lose the nation.
The moral accounting must begin.
Because the greatest debts are not always those owed in coin, but those owed in conscience.
Who Pays the Ferryman?
We live in a world shaped by convenience and individual pursuit, driven by what we want, what we can afford, and what brings us pleasure. But seldom do we stop to ask: What is the true cost of my choice? Who bears it, and when will it come due?
Every day, small decisions are made in households, boardrooms, and parliaments based on the price someone is willing to pay. The holiday we book to escape our stress. The phone we upgrade - though the old one still works. The vote we cast for promises of ease. The silence we offer in exchange for not rocking the boat.
But every indulgence has a shadow. The cheap clothes may come at the cost of child labour. The affordable food at the cost of broken farms. The personal joy of a decision may cost another their dignity, their place, their voice.
It’s easy to lose ourselves in a world where 'price' is transactional and visible - scanned, swiped, and settled. But 'cost'... cost is hidden. It’s paid by others, later, quietly. It’s paid in trust eroded, culture frayed, the environment wounded, families grieving.
And so we must ask again: Who pays the ferryman? In the old myths, no soul crossed the river without an offering. Today, we often leap without looking, ignoring the toll collector at the edge of the water. But the crossing always has its cost, whether we pay it, or someone else does.
So perhaps the challenge is not only to count the price, but to weigh the cost. To pause before the crossing, and ask not only what it gives us, but what it might take from others. That question alone could change the way we live.
Price is what we pay. Cost is what is borne. But value - value is what endures. It is the legacy of a decision, the soul of a sacrifice, the reason something matters. When we chase price and ignore cost, we often lose value. But when we consider all three... price, cost, and value... we begin to live more wisely, choose more justly, and act with greater care for what truly matters.
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