Ballad Of The Bicycle: The prison of privilege

Road next to my bike for a residential neighborhood. I watch the houses: in one, among the trees, stands a huge window.

- What a place to write! -I.

While walking, I guess as will the lives of their owners, their desires, their problems, sure, so different from mine. I imagine too, as would the lives of the people I love if I could give them a house with real taps, those that do not leak, with windows closed and do not let the air and a heater capable of heating on the coldest days of winter, and above all, give them that peace of mind that comes from knowing that when something breaks, not over the world.

Camino absorbed in these thoughts when a police car approaches and stops at my side. Two policemen and one drop of it tells me:

- What are you doing here?

I look down, and answer:

- Walk my dog.

The two cops look the dog with his eyes.

- Where is the dog? Says one of them.

- There by the door, 'I say pointing to the door of one of the chalets.

The cops look at each other: there is no dog.

- You can not be here: this is a private development.

The cops watch me.

- I see your ID card?

I search my pockets and pulled out the document. That's all I carry.

- Live at the other end of the city, police said younger.

The policeman looks at the photo and then looks at me.

- This can not be. You'll have to join us.

- Without my bike and my dog ​​does not go anywhere I reply.

The police watch and one of them looks at his watch and outlines a gesture of annoyance.

-Go ahead, we will accompany you to the exit.

I climb on my bike and I walk slowly down the street. To either side, empty houses, sad. All have concealed among bushes and vines, very high fences, alarms, gates, security cameras and spiked fences, those that are used to that poverty can not cross borders and obscure the sleek look of the world of the powerful.

No one seems to live in these houses. Everything in this place seems dead silence only broken by the engine noise of the patrol car following us.

- Orc! Come on, man! He cried. And before the mocking eyes of two policemen,

Orco, the dog that exists only in my imagination, running next to me, gordote and cheerful, with his heavy hulk of black and bright eyes.

- You know, my bike? I say quietly: 'left the prison of the privileged.

? Angel Steps

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