While driving to college at my usual speed, I encountered a sight that unexpectedly captured my attention right before reaching a traffic signal. An elderly man was making his way near the divider, but alarmingly, on the same road bustling with speeding cars. This man’s appearance was notably distinct; he was bald at the crown of his head, surrounded by a halo of sparse grey hairs messily framing his face. His attire consisted of a simple, possibly white or off-white shirt with long sleeves, paired with loosely fitting grey pants adorned with stripes, and his feet were clad in slippers. Over his right shoulder, he carried a tote bag, which he gripped firmly with one hand. What truly drew my gaze was the elaborate network of wrinkles that marked not only his clothes but seemed to be a mirror to the ones etched deep into his face. These wrinkles were so pronounced on his shirt, pants, and even the bag he carried, that they created an intricate pattern, almost like branches extending from a tree. It was as if each crease told a story of struggle, weaving a visible narrative of hardship across his being. As I observed him navigating his way amidst the chaos of traffic, his every move—marked by a certain anxious vigilance, the tight grip on his bag, and the weary slouch of his shoulders—painted a vivid picture of life’s arbitrary cruelty. The stark contrast between his fragile existence and the rush of surrounding life served as a poignant reminder of the deep inequalities that fissure our societies, silently echoing the harsh realities faced by some, often overlooked in the daily hum of existence.
