Corner Visions

I walk on the street. Alone. In a fine balance on the line that separates day and night. In a fine balance on the line that defines what is licit, possible, appropriate; that defines what is my own legitimate right.

My heart is heavy; my heart is distracted. I walk hoping that a gust of wind will brush negative thoughts away.

I walk and think. Walk with a steady pace and my head down. I walk and wish I could keep walking until the break of a new day.

I walk and hope that I won’t disturb anyone and hope that nobody will disturb me.

Surprised, I avoid the cigarette butt that a passer-by throws at me.

Embarrassed, my eyes meet those of a young boy who gives me a curious look.

I walk and think that it is three days since I last saw the scrawny donkey that generally stops in front of my house. I walk and hope that the donkey is doing fine.

I walk with my head down and discover that with this corner vision the world looks different, strangely fascinating.

I see puddles, feet, holes, ankles, boots, socks-less plastic slippers, high heels covered in mud, asphalt, ice patches, more mud. I see shops, houses, passer-bys in a reversed perspective: diagonal, downside up. The man with a woollen hat who sells telephone cards in his wheelchair takes a strange elongated shape from this angle. Of the cart that sells goldfishes I only see the wheels and the shadows of the wobbly plastic bags full of water projected onto the road.

I walk and think that perhaps this is how women see the world. Oblique and non linear.

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