narrative of a crisis

the country is in the middle of a crisis, unemployment rates are as big as they ever been, inflation keeps growing and the money i made two years ago does not buy as much as before. you walk around and violence is everywhere, police officers killing and getting killed, homeless people being treated like they are single-legged pigeons, children being told to go sleep because there’s no food to end their hunger, education is changing for worse again, public health care is as neglected as my flossing routine and you better not walk alone when it’s dark if you have two holes down there.

when i look around, i see thousands of resilient people trying to get their lives on, working even more, traveling even less, not going to the movies on a saturday night, swaying to the beat of the sad melody that plays around here every day and every night. i see a whole generation having their dreams, aspirations and rights being taken away from their hands.

i also see that woman completely lost, unmotivated, depressed and feeling like she has lost all her interesting bits. she never has new stories to tell and even though she reads a lot, it’s like all her content is slipping away from her soft and sweaty hands. she is jobless for a year now and feels unappealing for the market as well as for the male gender species. her frustration got to awfully high proportions and she feels like she is trying to cross a neck-deep shit lake.

she had been working in her field ever since the first year of her night shift bachelor course. a course that she could only go because she had a full scholarship. she didn’t like it there from the beginning, the program was shallow, the majority of the students were rich and cocky, she didn’t fit to that environment, but it was the best option she had. her parents did not give her any money anymore and she helped paying bills of the house she lived with her family, even though her dream was to live by herself or with friends… but who could afford such a dream? she always was lucid dreaming her life away and she did accomplish a lot.

the last twelve months are just a small, really bad, fucked up, part of her life. Of the countrie’s life.

moral: this too shall pass.

Show your support

Clapping shows how much you appreciated elizabeth moretti’s story.