#7, solid poverty and something in between

It’s half past four. But the day is already graying. I look outside the window to the back of a three-floor house. Its bare cement wall stands against the coming dusk, now reflects a color between lilac and a sad blue. I don’t know why I bother to describe the wall. I just couldn’t take my eyes off it. Inspiration, that’s what I’m looking for, I guess. I’ll let you guys know when I figure out why.

Dearest friends,

I took a little stroll around a decent business area this afternoon. It’s got plenty of stores dedicated to promote the value of modern convenience, stores that open twenty-four hours a day, or at least past midnight, from Blockbuster to Mos Burger, a Japanese version of franchised Burger King, from banks that declare they know the future which you just couldn’t link it with your own, to, of course, Starbucks.

I took my time and walked into lanes that were still not yet completely deprived of their sunlight by the great shadow going up and up again. Then I came to this open space, the only remaining open space in resided and consumed urban area: a parking lot. At the corner of the lot, was a fragile tiny little house.

You can’t really be sure what part of the house was the actual construction. For the place looked like different pieces of various articles tacked together regardless of their designed purpose. The window frames of the second floor were broken and of irregular shapes, not matching one another. And by second floor, I meant a cramped attic that couldn’t allow an adult to stand up straight. It had at least five different materials for it roof. And it seemed as if someone intentionally dumped piles and piles of clean and organized garbage in front of the door where plants grew out of vessels that were used for anything but potting in the back. You can just feel that the life inside and around the house was this huge collection of debris floating above the traffic of human lives, yet its ground was solid.

I think poverty is solid in a very positive way. But don’t take that as some healing wisdom that sings “everything’s gonna be alright” in G major. Living is hard, the constant worry over losing the job, losing the apartment, food on the table, and the desperately continuous need for money that you know for sure would solve all problems and the depressing fact that no matter what you do, you’re not going anywhere. But poverty is solid because it’s true. And whoever gets a slight glimpse of it can be reassured that the world is still real, just like pain and other negative definition of human language, or tragedies, the origin of all literature. Without it, life would just be a fairytale, and you would just be another make-believe. But with it, we’ll all remain living flesh.

But what do I know? Maybe the truth is that they’re not poor at all. And what do I know? Maybe one day, I’ll get lucky and get to live a life without worries and still call myself a realist. And what do I know? Who cares if poverty is solid when you can barely make it? And perhaps, I didn’t really mean any of the above. Perhaps, I just wanted to reason with myself, why despite all facts, I like the rickety pieces of housing, and how it made me feel warm and, alive.

Was it trembling when the wind blew over? Or was it vibrating upward and caused the stirring? Of course, it’s always easier for an outsider like me to judge. But who’s to answer? The only candidate entitled to such question would be people who underwent it all. Poverty may seem solid to me now. But poverty will be solid if those who live in that house agree so. Would I give up whatever I have and lead a life of such concrete hardship? Hell no. I still wish I wouldn’t end up living like that. I’m still not ready to give up what little comfort and security I managed to scrape along the way. Fiction or a true story? I guess I’m something in between, and that, might just be my pure imagination.