There are two different sides of Mexico City.  The area where the wealthy reside shines with gorgeous mansions and luxurious apartments that line the streets, humming together in unity. The ground sprouts flowers and trees that smile at their inhabitants and the obnoxious voice of the city is silenced. Families can be seen strolling the worn down pavement, grinning amongst themselves, obliviously ignoring any foreigner to their class. On sunny days Mexico City appears to be not a city at all, but instead a perfectly painted picture that is worthy of a king’s hall. Then, right down the street there is another world, panting from exhaustion and muted by a small portion of the population. It’s littered and clustered streets beat anxiously, driven into depression by poverty and loneliness. There are no police; instead the roads are governed by manipulation and blood. Houses are built on top of each other and small, cold beds are shared. It is a sad scene, one that when stared at for too long can drive one into a madness deeper then their bodies can bare. This sad scene is inevitable; even in the richest areas of the city there are lingering beggars who wake up in the chill of dawn to walk to their streets job from the squalid area they call home.

Begging is a business; at least, it is to the owners of the streets who charge individuals to ask others for money. Children are the most commonly hired beggars. The sight of a thin, filthy face that frowns at your soul from a body of dirty rags usually evokes more emotion then a middle-aged drunk man. The first time I witnessed one of these children I felt my eyes swell up, like waves ready to collapse into floods of tears. There she was, staring at me with round saddened eyes that whispered. The Child’s eyes looked lost, like they had removed themselves from this world to dwell in a safer place. Uneven, chopped hair danced in sporadic directions around her face and was spotted with specks of dirt and leaves. Her lips turned a permanent frown and each time her heart beat I could feel her skin pulsating with pain, just inches from mine. I was ten years old, she looked liked she was merely several years younger then me. Part of me wanted to curiously reach out and touch her, just to prove she was real. It seemed impossible to me to see a creature so strikingly different from myself. She had never lived a life like mine. I had never known her world, she was alien to me, like a fish stepping its fins on dirt.

My body instinctively spun to face my father, anxious to ask him to help the child; he denied my request however, for a reason I was too young to understand.  My veins rushed with anger and my breath charged at the redness of my lungs like an enraged bull. I felt as if my father were a cold, hideous stranger, rushing me along streets against my will. My legs dragged with pity for the unfortunate girl and my arms weighed down with the shame of not helping her. I was young and emotional like a breezy wind of change, draining my confusion and frustration through currents of dangerous tears. I collapsed my corpse onto the rancid pavement and threw my head to my knees as my eyes spat dreary rain that streamed down my face, masking my innocence.

People passed me, running down the roads on their way to an unknown place for their own reasons. Me sitting on that curb, however, was my world. I was unsure of my past and the thought of the future was unthinkable. No other thought could cloud my puzzled mind but the sad curve of the child’s eyes as I searched them desperately, looking for answers, contemplating a solution.  I would soon come to learn though that not all problems necessarily have solutions. You see, by giving these children money, I would also be giving money to the drug lords who hired them, as I would be supporting child labor and taking these helpless kids out of school to work the streets. So instead, I learned to shut out their silent cries, to ignore their faces like I so effortlessly pass every stranger of whom I encounter. I became indifferent to these people to protect myself from the stabs that they thrust into my heart. The sight of that child shadowed my happiness. I could never allow myself to experience such a harrowing emotion. I feared that if I opened myself up to them, to their effortless cause, they would all rush through, trapping themselves inside of me until the day came when I would have to find an answer for them or internally suffer from their cold hands that pulled me, dragging me down into sickening sewers. So I made the decision to shut their voices out, a mistake that transformed my essence. I was herded into a flock of cattle, eating luscious grass and mechanically parading hills, unaware of the exciting buzz that stung the air around me.

The world lost its poetry. Light was a scientific term, serving its purpose. Fields of nature remained still as my heart slowly began fading its beat. The song of birds muted and replaced with loud sirens that echoed the empty streets as thousands of pedestrians roamed them with their cell phones and ipods. Buildings became larger and trees smaller, the darkness of society lured me into its gravitational pull. The children called after me, wherever I went…

“Me puedes dar dinero?” Can you give me money? And I continued on, staring at my rushing feet that trembled the broken ground the children stood on. As time passed, it became easier to ignore them. They became flies, flying towards your face only when you swat at them. The art of indifference is not an acquired skill; it’s a force that anyone may incorporate into his or her nature. It is an unconscious energy that is magnetized by our souls as a shield, a mere protection. Many in Mexico City and in all other areas of the world have learned to embrace its divine power. There are times when it is better to feel empty like a discharged contained rather then to be a poked carton of milk, splattered and forgotten about on the floor, spoiling in an unknown corner.

So I forced myself to ignore them, but not without paying a price. I soon found myself feeling like a changed person, someone who didn’t care about anyone but herself.  It became difficult to embrace my emotions because I was terrified of the thought of remembering the feeling of helplessness that I had to suffer through whenever I saw them. Experiencing such pain as a child made me afraid of living through it again. I placed a bubble around my emotions. I rarely let anyone in to the dusty, dim room that was my heart. My brown eyes that once sparkled became deep holes whose bottom could not be seen.

Emotions are like butterflies, flying in different directions as their sublime color is only revealed by light, however, they must cocoon from their warm, safe cave into a dangerous and unpredictable world. Some flutter into heaven, while others are poked at, stepped on and shot down by the curious hands of humans. The ones that fly into the sky though are free, happily matting and exploring new lands. Maybe I was once a butterfly, but experience taught me to tread home safely to my cocoon, where I have been helplessly terrified to exit since I entered. The world teases me from my nest, shooting me images of open skies as I cowardly crouch in my nest, hiding my wings from the world and never revealing them to myself. I sit and I stare, knocking back and forth between the lines of endless cocoons that hang from the meadows of trees. My favorite time of the day is when the evening rain comes, with its raging winds and electric thunder, because this is when I see all of the butterflies racing back to their cocoons, fighting the forces of nature, only to find that their cocoons are gone. This is when I appreciate my hidden nest. I am shut out from them and the world but I am safe, at least, I think I am until the see the brilliant sunrise and long for the warmth of its colorful rays on my wings.

Photo by Restless Mind