Commuting

I nod my head along mindlessly to the melody flowing from my headphones. My feet following each other, knowing this familiar journey all too well. I snake my way through the barriers, tapping my Oyster, recognising the beep just moments before the barriers wheeze open. I slip my card back into my battered wallet and look up. He's there. Again. Of course he is. He perches on sodden cardboard. Face hollow and mute of expression. He holds out cupped hands toward all who pass him.

“Please. Spare change. Please.”

Despite uttering this script daily, his voice still catches on his throat, stumbling over the consonants as though unfamiliar with these words that stagger down his tongue. Our eyes lock. They seem so empty. All expression exhausted from them. A thin black veil clings to his bones. A shadow. A coldness. Each day grinds away more of his humanity as eyes flutter away from meeting his gaze.

Every day we usher past him without faltering. Hundreds of footprints pass him by. Myself just as complicit as the rest of the herd. We allow our eyes to slide away from him, falling instead to the grimy slabs of concrete. Such discoloured squares cannot make us feel pangs of guilt or shame. The geometric pattern is comforting in comparison. These inanimate pavings will never yearn for warmth. They will never force us to confront the reality. The reality is that we could spare £3.50 for a meal deal, we could spare £1 for some biscuits or water. We become jaded cogs, forgoing simple acts of humanity for the sake of temporary comfort.

His image is implanted in my brain.

One in every 51 people in London are homeless. Relying on temporary government-provided accommodation, sofa surfing, inhabiting hostels or simply sleeping rough. This blog has touched on the topic of our unhoused before. Our grey-washed, forgotten population. This demographic seems to be exponentially growing. The price of survival toppling over each day.