Fastwalker

He sits on a ruined patch of cardboard on the sidewalk and extends a tired hand to busy, oblivious people running late for meetings and lunches and presentations and appointments. He gets only fragments of attention from children and dogs, at the same eye level, who all get swiftly pulled away by uncomfortable, accelerating paces.

He’s far beyond asking for pity or consideration. Long ago, he crossed the boundaries of self-esteem into a world of blurred anonymity where even the most basic of needs are surrendered to quench a thirst that never ends. He retreated ever deeper inside, yielding increasing bits of his soul to an inner battle he knew was lost in advance.

He doesn’t quite remember life before this altered state of being; it was a time where he, too, was one of the fastwalkers breezing past, his mind captured in numbers and deadlines and targets and results. There were others, supposed to be significant but only contributing to the global noise and his growing feeling of losing grip. And when the confusing storm got too intense, his only refuge was to numb his mind until the world faded away in artificial bliss, until it painfully came back again.

At some point, this world he resented started to slip uncontrollably. The burden of living must have reached an invisible tipping point, or he stumbled past some tripwire that blew away what remained of the flimsy façade he was struggling to maintain. Or he just stopped caring and gave into the only thing which ever brought him solace, at the cost of his own humanity.

The tiny clunk of a spare coin whips him out of his desperate reverie. He can’t even tell which hurried trench coat dropped the meager display of pity; he only knows he missed the one instant where anyone acknowledged his abyssal existence. So he mumbles a few thanks to the wind and drops his head down again.

He won’t move. It’s too painful, too pointless. There are not enough coins yet, anyway, and the Shepherds of Righteousness haven’t arrived with their empty words and warm soup. He’ll just stay there. Remain. Cling to his piece of cardboard and an empty coffee cup. Cling to the false hope that maybe he’s gonna wake up from this fuzzy dream of a life into an existence that’s actually worth living.

Maybe.

Please don’t give money to homeless people in the streets, specifically at this time of year. Give them a warm pair of gloves, a hat, a decent meal or a sleeping bag. Even better, give them the gift of consideration and dignity by offering them a minute of real attention.

To The System

I am talking to you, System. Sit down, shut the fuck up and pay attention for once.

I fell in hate with you from the moment I saw you, which must’ve been the first day I entered a church or attended school. Bastard. From that very instant, you have denied me my individuality and tried every way to force me into a mold made for no one.

You have aimed to quell every attempt I made at happiness, telling me what you think I must do with my life. You’ve stamped me with numbers, codes and PINs. You have created false hopes and dreams, enslaved me with credit and burdened me with taxes that don’t do shit to help the poor, the weak and the unhealthy. Thief. You have robbed and plundered every single bit of wealth you could put your dirty claws on and you have spread the cancer of corruption and favoritism to every level of society.

You cower behind thick curtains of forms, laws, and regulations created to make it impossible for the People to understand what’s really going on. You suck on power like a vampire and cling to every bit of control in the name of social order. Liar. You command brigades of brainless despaired drones who only posses the tiniest fragments of information and power in a desolate circus called fragmentation which you created to ensure no one could ever question your legitimacy. And you have been insanely successful for years.

You have no care for the ones you are supposed to be working for. Criminal. You treat People with disdain and deny them any consideration, empathy or respect. You humiliate even the strongest with your unjustified questions and your hermetic language. You pry into my intimacy and give yourself the right to judge or qualify my actions while I have no say on yours.

You place People in lines like cattle and let them wait while overworked and irritated clerks shuffle through useless piles of papers in labyrinths of file cabinets until they get their hands on the next carbon-copy piece of shit that will justify the additional delay in treatment or supplementary fee to be paid.

You are like your buildings. Fat, bland, ugly and sick. You have grown out of any proportion, to the point of self-sufficiency. Even if no external input was ever added to you for the next 20 years, you would still function, unaffected. You have numbers and codes for everything, down to bathroom doors. You are ridiculous and laughable, stuck in the sclerosis of your own procedures and your dusty decorum.

One day, your cupidity will catch up on you. The compartmentalized bureaucracy you thought protects you will implode, cave in upon your bloated paralyzed self and crumble your pompous buildings down to pieces. I will be there on that day to shove your affidavits, your pro forma and your fucking rubber stamps down your limp throat until you choke.

And I’ll dance upon your ashes.