Life is a Joyless Journey
Feet sweeping the street, she walks on garbage - the abandoned filth of society scattered about. Torn rubber, what's left of slippers on her dark almost-swollen feet.
Words mean nothing, there is practically nothing for her now. She shrugs off the words, and ignores more attempts. Her mission is her focus; she is determined.
She continues her journey, out from the intricate network of paths; through small lanes, then walks on a cement slab over a canal. Out, from the maze.
At last, away from the tight squeeze and the away from the pensive state of affairs, far from the ear-splitting shrieks and barking dogs.
Now, she's on the main street. Surrounded by tall buildings and elevated structures. All dedicated to the gods of capitalistic appetite, of pure hard currency that binds souls, reason and delusions. This city, and it's development, towers up to the high heavens, the glaring sky with the mountainous clouds.
She finds a place, beside a pedestrian bridge. A crowd surge around her. They, like many times before, are oblivious to her presence. Her limbs move, to place a mat on the dirt. Then she sits, on her heels as she grounds her knees on the mat.
Then the ritual starts. A tribute to the raw energy, that seems to stimulate the mindset of the crowd into a reaction.
Palms pressing against each other. Then that slight bow as a shadow falls on her face. The face is heavily marked by time, and eyes that dull with hardship. Poverty is real, and as harsh as the soil that she sits on.
An old plastic cup near her knees; a couple of coins in it. Life is meaningful for today, if only that she gets to fill her lungs with air and for her, like many other days, to offer her hands and hope that karma would be kind to this wretched existence.
For coins, for empathy, for life.