The Symmetry of Misfortune; A Perspective on Decadence

This is my first post in this community. In the days leading up to writing these lines, the Ecency and PeakD algorithms kept suggesting this niche to me. I’ve read stories full of a kind of intelligence that hits you, and at the same time feels like a soft touch on creativity. Somewhere between that drop of inspiration, which I genuinely thank the authors for, and my own sense of a decaying existence, I decided to speak up and share a point of view that’s uncomfortable, but one I can’t hold in anymore.

I chose this title for poetic reasons, even though there are some clear parallels between the symmetry we see in photography and the misfortune of living in a country with no future, no growth, and a heavy, suffocating, deeply pessimistic atmosphere. Yes, I’m talking about Venezuela, the place I’ve had to call home all my life. This is a mix of emotions and perspectives: complaints, anger, some rage, and a whole lot of frustration. Sometimes I just need to leave this behind, even if only for a moment, and this space right here is proof of that need.

To really understand what I mean, you have to know what’s happened. I’m not old, but I’m not exactly young either. I guess I’m somewhere in between. I’m 33, which isn’t a lot, but it’s not nothing either. In most parts of the world, places without war, invasions, armed conflict or anything like that, you’d expect to have a certain lifestyle by now, and more importantly, a sense of purpose you’re working toward. In Venezuela, that’s just an illusion. For at least 24 years, our story changed. And no, I’m not getting into politics. I’ll just say that what’s normal elsewhere feels like a dream here.

You can’t really dream, plan, build something, or save money. It’s like being stuck in a constant episode of The Walking Dead, especially one called J.S.S, Just Survive Somehow, but forever. There are three basic missions you can’t ignore if you live here: prioritize buying food, get your hands on dollars, and don’t get sick. That’s it. That’s what life here boils down to for most people in this miserable place, cut off from everything and strangely elitist. It’s no coincidence that Hive is full of people like us.

I don’t want to come across like I’m just ranting without shame, I really don’t. And I’m sorry if my words sound dark or hopeless, but I’ve said it before, I need to let some of this out because it eats you alive from the inside. Going back to the point, Viviana Maier, the woman behind the photograph on my cover, lived through the Great Depression in the 1930s in the US. That changed her completely and permanently. She spent her life capturing everyday life as art, but with a perfectionist eye, the symmetry of misfortune.

I’m not Mrs. Maier, I wish I had even ten percent of her talent, but I’ll never get there. Still, she’s the closest reference I’ve found to explain why hopelessness feels like a dictator for those of us who live here. Or better said, for me, for the way I see and understand the world. I’d love to say that the horizon is always there no matter how bad things get, but I seriously doubt it. My friends, most of my family, even a couple of people I loved, have left this place because wanting something more and living here just don’t go together.

I normally wouldn’t say any of this, but I guess what pushed me over the edge, at least for me, was seeing a kid, no older than five, abandoned in a wealthy part of the city where I live, Valencia, Venezuela. Completely alone, dirty, covered in flies because of how neglected he was, and watching people walk right past him, deliberately ignoring him. Can you honestly expect anything good for that kid’s life? I can’t.

I thought about taking a picture, but out of respect for his dignity as a human being, I didn’t. Along with a stranger who was there too, we decided to call the police and let them, the so called authorities, take care of it. This happened a couple of weeks ago, and every night, since I’m a night person, I find myself thinking about him, his dreams, his life. It breaks me to have seen what he’s already had to go through, and it makes me even angrier knowing he won’t be the last. For now, I’ll leave it here, and I truly hope you’re doing better than I am.