Dust

The omnipresence of poverty shocks me. Misery spills through every front: you can look at it, listen to it, smell it, touch it with your hand. It fuses with non-misery and challenges it, turning it also miserable. Bothering. The very least is lots among those who have nothing. 
The gaze lands inevitably over layers of decay: Half-built buildings, half-built streets, houses that only made it to the attempt, cars on the verge of collapsing, amassed garbage. And everything is insistently covered by dust.  
You don’t get to not see it. There is nowhere to hide, it is impossible to dodge and hope to forget. Poverty is everywhere and from the second floor of the sad and chipped building where I sleep you can see those who have nothing passing by. And from the bus that’s still standing thanks to some magic spell, you can see those who have nothing. And from the street, on foot, you can see the ones who no longer have the strength or the will to keep walking.