In the aisles of a supermarket

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A few years ago, when walking through the aisles of a supermarket, my anguish was seeing the objectivity of people with lists in their hands hitting their carts on me, it was feeling the coldness of the food store that didn’t direct me even a glance, the disgust of the lady who weighed my fruits, the carelessness with which the butcher worked the meat that I served to my family, the automaticity with which the food was passed on the conveyor belt and the urgency with which the bagger threw everything I chose in that bag plastic. Today the narrative has changed, I tell another one, which anguishes me more, more because of the hypocritical anguish I felt. Today the pain is acute and has a historic weight. I am even more distressed by the fact that the food store, the lady who weighs the fruits, the butcher who works the meat and the bagger, cannot walk through the aisles of a supermarket with the tranquility that I walk. I disgust my tranquility. I am ashamed of my full cart and my list with so many addenda. It anguishes me to be in the super or hyper market (or any other aggrandizing adjective they have) and to be suffocated with so many possibilities that they are being sold as a matter of urgency, all so impersonal, so labeled. Everything is full of color and brightness, disguising the pain and ashes that move that industry. It is the showcase of scandal, of hunger. It is the anti-life in the life of the butcher who works with death every day. It is the anti-glare in the look of the falsely varnished apple, it is the discomfort of the confectioner who sees the cake dough set in the shape with more fit and comfort than his own accent on the bus. It is the question of the transgenic and the plastic bag being discussed more than the life of that woman who weighs the modified fruits or the condition of that bagger. My cart is full of pain, I put all the weight of the world on the dinner table and serve my family, which by the way is not even so close together.

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