The streets was her home, but she had dream that was too
heavy for the universe to carry.
“I will be a writer one day”, she told me, showing me a list
of dreams in very bad handwriting. “I will write of the people walking on the
street, wearing suits but struggling to live.”
“I will write of the rich looking man well dressed in
expensive clothes but suffering from hypertension and diabetes. I will tell my
readers never to envy them.”
I watched her eyes sparkle as she watches people pass by.
All she had was her little luggage. Life was hard for her at the moment but she
knew things will get better.
“Will you write about your eyes, the way they always sparkle
when you are excited? The galaxies in her eyes?”
She paused, then shook her head.
“No,” she said, then swallowed hard. “I won’t do that.”
“Why not?” I asked, shocked at her answer.
She looked into my eyes. I was blinded by her galaxies.
“Because no one would like to read the story of a girl living in the streets.
They all know the struggles of a girl living on the streets. But they don’t
know the struggles of a man living the life.”
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