A semi-dark and deserted street of an ordinary city on a winter night. A man forced to live on the streets and sleep rough. A story of ordinary loneliness. Wrong story, dirty, inaccurate, disturbing, unglamorous, not at all glamorous.
Unmindful of current trends that dictate not seeing, turning one’s eyes away so as not to be disturbed. Because sometimes conscious ignorance is much easier to bear than the slap of a reality that can fall on anyone.
An ordinary middle-aged man is forced to feed on charity and cover himself through the wastefulness of others. A human being forced to wait late at night to find shelter within four walls that are no longer needed, left to neglect and left to fend for themselves. An individual who, for the umpteenth time, will quietly and silently abandon himself on an old mattress patched between sheets composed of plastic bags and discarded clothing resting his dignity on a broken chair.
Again dreams that will taste of urine and faeces, expired food and open cans of tuna, the only “scents” known from his makeshift room. Dreams that will perhaps bring him better times and hope for a different tomorrow, as he recounts in a hushed voice. The voice of a man everyone pretends not to see, whom everyone pushes night after night with fleeting attitudes and glances, invisible hands, into a hell of loneliness and silence.
This man’s name is not necessary; his nationality is not essential, nor is the city in which all this is happening. It happens in every neighbourhood, municipality, large or small, nation, and country. Because in the end, all places have a common element, and not always the best one. But what matters is that a piece of humanity is slowly consumed in general indifference. One more wrong story.
