FEATURE
Keziah Yvette O. Acharon
Lost. Hopeless.
Trapped
in
the
paradise of hell. I am
but skin and bones
wandering a chaotic
dimension that reeks
of progress. City lights
blind my hollow eyes,
and car headlights
burn my flesh. I am
clothed in rags and
filth seeking yet a piece of
bread to fill my empty
stomach. And yet they call
this progress.
I walk barefoot on
metallic hot roads, selling
sampaguita to women who
wear Givenchy and say they
don’t have a coin to spare
for my starving family. I
knock relentlessly on car
windows until the men
wearing Rolex decide I’m
too much that they are
forced to hand me a penny.
I have cartons as my
mattresses during the night,
and I sleep beneath empty
sacks of rice. I drink coffee
for breakfast, and sip on a
cup of noodle soup that I
have to share with 10
others for dinner. It’s
probably
the
progress
talking. Or maybe my
growling stomach.
I don’t blame
the women who
have Prada purses
for not having extra
nickels for me or my
family because they
probably spent all
that they have on
their 2,000,000-peso
bags. It’s a big
amount of money,
and who are we compared
to those Mahnolo Blahniks
heels to be spent so much
on? I also don’t blame the
men streaming down the
roads with their Volvo cars
because, of course, they
would have no money left
for accessorizing their
vehicles. We’re not worth
the dime. I don’t blame
them at all. This is, after all,
the picture of progres