Homeless man under a railway underpass
Photo: Hauke-Christian Dittrich / DPA
Those who were weak before 2019 will now be broken.
There they sit, the parts of humanity that are absolutely not sexy. For whom you don't do campaigns, you don't save with pith helmets in the jungle, with whom you don't dance, who don't have a lobby, don't have a voice because they don't look great. They sit in their apartments or in small rooms. Or under bridges, or in homes, and have been included in the statistics for two years, in the lists of pandemic victims. There was first talk of the very old, until the idea of publicly negotiating their demise, then the children and young people, and in a side note the single parents.
And then there was the void where they should find themselves. The deadly sad, the ex-junkies, the old freaks, the long-term unemployed, the physically handicapped. The ostracized, the confused, the unique pieces of the city, they used to be called village idiots, the too sensitive, those who failed in the world. At some point they were young, maybe they are still, they were the outsiders, they couldn't get along, they didn't feel like competing, or they couldn't run. They were dreamers or mentally conspicuous, that's what they say today when someone deviates from the norm of Insta influencers. They had fucking parents or too many dreams. Then they got sick, or the drugs came along, or at some point they went off the rails in a race for nothing but - stuff. Without stuff you have no right to anythingyou are also included in the statistics that speak of an increase in loneliness. Or of an increased risk of suicide.
And they sit there in their apartments or rooms, live in homes of the Salvation Army, in social housing. And capitalism has never needed it. Her life was set up before the pandemic. With small highlights, in a cautious routine. Going out, meeting with others. Drinking a beer or tea, or looking at the shops, walking, sitting and looking, the little rituals that made them feel connected to the world. It was then switched off via a kill switch. And outside the people groaned, the boys and single parents, the students and teachers, the nursing staff, and shifted their lives to the Internet.
The empty space people often have no internet, no Grindr or Tinder, no Instagram profiles, no groups in which to exchange ideas.
You have nothing but little highlights, the daily routines, the morning coffee at the kiosk, and all of that was suddenly gone.
What remained was the loud loneliness and nothing but panic and the wall.
And no one spoke to them from this wall, they were never mentioned in all the waves of sympathy among the population.
If hardly anyone had seen her before the pandemic, now the decent people made big bows around her.
Number of pages: 640
Number of pages: 640
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During the time when people had learned to fear one another, they who produced no added value sat there all alone. Now they have become even sadder, even more lonely, even more unhappy, it has become even clearer to them that everything that makes a life beautiful has to do with money. And they don't. With money and a résumé, you have families and cars to avoid the pandemic. You, the lonely, the freaks, the sad, sick or old addicts, they no longer even have the illusion that it is worth living. If it is difficult to keep upright, if every change in the established normality seems to threaten existence, then small shifts are enough for the fragile structure of the meaning of life to disappear. What then comes is the fall into the abyss.
Yes, well, we cannot take care of all of them, we are already donating for the emergency bridge or for trauma victims, you might think.
It's not difficult.
You just have to get used to seeing those who are mostly invisible.
Those who sit on the floor, stand on the edge, who look weird that we don't need.
If you've always wanted to save the world, it's not that difficult.
You can make their world more beautiful.
Talk with you.
And know: That could be me there.