Siddhartha

I'm here. I'm here but I'm living in a bubble. I write not to complain but to acknowledge. Men burn around me, disenfranchised citizens scream at eager, panther-black batons. There is not enough food or jobs to go around. Laborers float in the dead sea of unemployment. Yet here I sit behind palace walls, the visions around me tinted emerald as I gaze through jewel-encrusted lashes known only by the fortunate here in the city victorious.
I saw a beggar yesterday. He hobbled down the row of cars stopped at a red light. I would like to say that I met his stare and acknowledged his innocence and the vulnerability any pedestrian might feel amongst a sea of horse power and the steel of wealth. But I didn't.
Daily the news washes stories ashore like pieces of drift wood upon a tired beach. The U.S. discusses cutting funding to Egypt. Egypt's middle class is too divided to unite against government inadequacies. Necessary subsidies are only stinting economic growth. And I see none of it. I'm here. I'm here but I'm living in a bubble.