Living in the Shadow of Poverty: A Walk Through a Single Block

I am practicing, and I'm getting better at it. It's true, what they say, that you get better at things with practice.

I lock the door, go down the stairs into the main hall of my building, I intentionally take a longer step than normal, just to squash a fat cockroach that crosses my path as my lunch threatens to come back up . The guard opens the door for me, I've gotten used to not having a key to the main door of my building (security issues).

I turn right, 4 guys sell umbrellas in front of the Brasil Bank, they purr at me in a heavy accented english as usual as I go by, I have learnt to ignore them, that was the easiest part, they don't present extreme signs of poverty except for their ragged clothes and bare feet.

As I cross the street, a pair of blind eyes stare at me, I unconsciously read the sign, as I do every day: "I am blind and diabetic, please help me", he smokes a cigarette someone gave him. My gut tightens, the strong odour of piss and garbage don't help.

A couple sleeps on the sidewalk, against the entrance of a closed shop. The mattress is made of cardboard, and so are the sheets they cover themselves with. They cuddle together, the air seems warm enough for me, but for them it's winter.

Raf (No se si me produce mas angustia la idea de desensibilizarme ante lo que me rodea o el efecto que tiene sobre mi eso que me rodea).




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