His lostness is familiar to me, it's that unerringly accurate, correct feeling that all the doors we intended, or intend to knock on, are locked for some reason
The one who has not experienced misery cannot know what it really is, but I know what the look of a man with a beard and a black dog on a leash, standing in front of the sports betting shop, close to the church of Our Lady of the Sea, means. This is the view of a man who, until yesterday, went to work in the same workman's overalls, gray blue uniform with sewn-on pockets on the chest (intended for smaller tools or cigarettes or a wallet with personal documents), who, however, by the will of the powerful and of course only seemingly unbreakable (only if people knew it, and wanted to use it!) got fired, which is now lost, doesn't know what to do.
His lostness is familiar to me, it's that unerringly accurate, correct feeling that all the doors we've tried to knock on have been opened for us for some reason, and that every attempt to penetrate inside, to break through to that one, is futile. coveted, existentially crucial, "workplace", protected by tightly, inextricably bound chains of interests and proverbial polity, where a certain amount of money is distributed, by no means large, but to us large and significant, in fact unattainable.
But it won't work for us, as this man's look says that he does won't be a lucky winner on the sports lottery, which he just played. But he is still waiting, waiting for what? At some point when he (and the members of his family, I suppose, because this man gives the impression of someone who is a husband and father) will feel so much in his gut that he will no longer give way to hesitation or doubts - simply at night, long before the dawn (in that ice-quiet moment at night when it is absolutely certain that everyone, except for the bakers in the bakeries, is sleeping) break into one of the shops, kiosks, butchers...
After all, this is already happening a lot, the hungry and jobless are already condemned to it (those who did not manage - that is, did not agree with politics, and who, observed from our safe perspective, are themselves to blame for it).
Chills, quiet and cold hearts that lift us up from the thought that the violence of instincts awakened by misery, pure hunger, is so close to us that it can almost blow us away with its repulsive stench, makes us unexpectedly (and unplanned) receptive to such a personal fateful moment of someone of an unhappy being, but soon after, the fullness (fullness!) of our wallet will divert our thoughts to something else - to something that needs to be bought, conquered, gained - clearly, for ourselves and for ours...
It's called cruelty, the cruelty of life, the kind described by the old, by all accounts also decadent, dirty, repulsively anachronistic, old-fashioned writers, maybe even some crazy, lost-mind composer, or painter imprisoned in a mental hospital, which luckily, and thank heavens, us personally, of our lives and outlook - our modernity and contemporaneity, our positive, almost visionary outlook towards the future - does not concern.
We are exempt from such a sequence of events - the line that separates us from the hungry, disenfranchised, executed world, of which there are more and more, is thick and impenetrable, we console ourselves, still living our life which, however, by the nature of things, the deeper nature of life is subject to change, but this is a fact we want to forget.
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