This Home of Mine

How do you make sense of this city, this home of mine? This is nothing but idleness and insanity. From one back to the other, drugs intertwined. Is it the same in every major city in the world? Maybe, but this is getting ridiculous. One after the other as I walk, men lying, looking, oblivious on the sidewalk. Do they have no impulse to do anything else? The crazy man ranting makes more sense than this. Why can people across the globe persist in the face of death and these people languish in the land of plenty? Is it not their fault?
A long line around the block, waiting for a handout from the church. I stare, trying to put them in the proper context. They sit there, waiting. Waiting, that in itself is a different concept in this land. We can’t wait for anything, we need it now. But these people are waiting for…a handout. Are times really that tough? Are there no jobs left? What is going on? How can you call this a healthy society? We as a people are judged around the world by things superficial, like the economy. The depths, the ugliness are exposed now. The sick wealth- exposed, and people can see again what’s important to people here. But that isn’t this country.
There are people struggling, trying- and these people, waiting. But there are people elsewhere waiting to die. What the fuck is going on?
How inextricably are we all tied to each other? Waiting, on what, for what reasons? Down and out, in what way? Who would switch with who given the chance?