The Parable of Filth

The streets here are paved with shit. Literally.

When I first arrived, it was sensory overload, and rising above it all, over all the other senses, was the smell, then the colors: drab and dusty ochre, burnt sienna.

The people here are colorless, without features, without any expressions at all. They walk from here to there without stopping. They never notice me. I try to read their body postures, but they have no distinction between them. I can't tell if they are men or women. They are all stooped and broken, that is all.

They wear burlap. The clothes are baggy. They cover their heads and hide in rough cloth shells.

They walk barefoot. Their feet are covered in round sores and wormholes from the shit they walk on all day, every day.

They sell their wares: brown clay pots and spoons. They sell what they call food. It doesn't look much different than the shit in the streets.

The sky never changes, and time stretches out until the very concept of time fades away.

I walk among them. They don't seem to mind me. They don't seem to notice me, or at least that is what they pretend.

But there are no mirrors here, so I can't even notice myself.

All I know is that this burlap chafes my skin, and I hate pulling these worms out of my feet. Still, I walk, despite the fact I am stooped and broken.