Crowded space

People see him on the road running to different destinations, in a race against time, feeling alienated; for he is nothing but an ignored number like these numbers running in the streets aimlessly; numbers, just numbers; and behind their features, stories and disappointments hide, suggested by those wandering gazes and the feet rushing without direction. An old man carrying a basin and a stick; the colored spots scattered on his clothes suggest he is a painter; he gestures with his hands quickly on the sidewalk, pedestrians avoid him, fearing that the paint might stain their clothes. The hours of the day seem insufficient to accomplish what awaits them of tasks, which are insignificant to complete, life goes on whether they finish them or not. A limping man crosses the street to the opposite side, cars do not give him time, so he jumps on one leg until he reaches the sidewalk. Under the blazing sun, a child taps on a car window offering a box of tissues, gesturing that he doesn't need them; car horns suddenly sound from behind him, he lifts his head, the signal is green. He feels very small in this existence; and that everything he runs to accomplish, even if he does it perfectly, will end in oblivion; the oblivion that erases both great deeds and trivial acts, the oblivion that will wipe out these numbers filling the streets; but it does not erase the shame that invades himself.