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Original: English. |
It is a big City. Every morning before the city fully awakens, I arrive at my base. 1 |
The sun may not yet rise, and the streets are still wet with dew, the air crisp and sharp with the promise of the day ahead. The hum of my machine is the only sound breaking the stillness. 2 |
My job is simple, or so it seems. I clean the streets, clear the pavements, and ensure the city is tidy for its bustling crowds that are going to arrive here. 3 |
But there is more to me than meets the eye. 4 |
I am not an ordinary garbage collector pushing a machine through the streets and pavements. Every street I walk on has a rhythm. Every nook and cranny has a story. Every piece of garbage has its own narrative. I have the ability to feel all of these things. 5 |
As I guide the sweeping machine along the edges of the road, I hear the whispers of the city. The crinkle of papers caught in a gust of wind is of many types. The thud of old cans bouncing across the curb is of many kinds. As I walk on the dead leaves that fell yesterday, their complaints are of many kinds. Every sound has its own message. 6 |
The swish of my broom feels like a lullaby for the city, a way of making it breathe again. 7 |
My destined route takes me through a market which is located at the heart of the city. I come here when the vendors are just beginning to set up their stalls, and the smell of fresh bread and coffee coming from a nearby coffee shop fills the air. 8 |
A couple of free croissants and a complimentary cappuccino, which I am given daily by the coffee shop staff, are my breakfast. Otherwise, they are luxury items for me to buy. Also, many smiles and small chats from them boost me. 9 |
I deliberately delay moving forward once I get here. Chatting with the vendors while they start up their day is a must for me; otherwise, I have no one permanent to speak to. The people surrounding me are my only family. 10 |
There is a beautiful park there. Its benches, trees, and walkways are neatly arranged. I come in the morning to witness the remnants of the previous night’s unruly visitors scattered on the ground: various glass bottles, some are broken and some are intact, various plastic bottles, some are empty and some are not, some food packages, some are entirely eaten and some are with leftovers, with signs of the foxes and dogs arrival who have torn them apart. Napkins. Used male condoms. Food wrappers. 11 |
I tidy it all up, feeling a sense of satisfaction with each little task completed. 12 |
There are a few alleyways too. Some are a narrow, forgotten stretch between two buildings where the shadows lingered even at midday. 13 |
The pavements here are uneven, cracked, and, as expected, littered with debris. It is the last place the city cares about, yet it is the first place the city should have cared about. 14 |
I know the alley well: every dent in the wall, every graffiti tag, and every piece of litter that seems to find its way there. 15 |
The things that are thrown out of the mouth and the things that are thrown out of the stomach are scattered here and there. This is also a place where many things that were collected as necessary are dumped after they are no longer needed. This is also the place where lust is auctioned off without the police seeing it. This is the place where the need for money and the need for sex meet in the middle of the night. The many plastic condoms that they leave behind after work are a testament to that. How can they be so cute in this stench? 16 |
Despite this, there is something about the alley that pulls at me: a sense of quiet rebellion against the orderly world outside. 17 |
No matter how malodorous the place is, it is heaven for someone. On these rough walls, many pour their thoughts, worries, and expectations into murals with many colors and signs. Every day is a color. Someone scratches what they have in their hearts, and someone else comes and leaves their own impressions on it. The walls are canvases which no one claims as their own. 18 |
A few days back, I met with a full-size hand-drawn graffiti kind of picture on one of the walls of the alley. It was a simple sketch of a child holding balloons. Though she is carrying balloons, her face has no sign of happiness, even if only faintly. 19 |
I paused sweeping and gazed at the drawing. It was not much, but it felt like a message, as if someone had left a piece of their past life behind for others to see and understand. 20 |
Now, I am trying to think about the painter who just did a masterpiece in the dark and vanished. 21 |
I understand. I am not merely sweeping up the remnants of the night before. I am making room for the city to breathe in various experiences and forgotten moments of unfamiliar faces. 22 |
Each street, each corner, and every alley is a canvas, and I, the street sweeper, am both the artist and the guardian of the stories that linger in the shadows. 23 |
As the sun starts to fall and the city comes to rest, I, too, move back to my base. 24 |
Yes. I am not just a street sweeper who has to push the machine and the broom with a purpose. I take every day as a chance to create something new: a better world. 25 ★ |
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