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Diary of a Peasant
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Waking up to another beautiful day — stomach empty, head pounding. I feel frustrated. There is no hope for my next meal. My creditors have sent their messages. Not only do I lack, but I’m in debt.
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I’m desperate for money — not for myself, but to repay my debt. If anything remains, maybe I’ll find something to eat — even if it’s just bread and water.
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Every day, my heart skips a beat when I remember what I owe. I sleep long hours to save energy. I fear the cold and sickness — they would only add more misery to my already deplorable state.
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It’s a cycle: sadness, hunger, and debt. The longing for a meal. I sleep and dream of food. When I wake, I feel the hollowness of malnutrition (not imagined — real and bitter).
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“I lack, therefore I need.” If I ever become known for a quote, let it be that. Sometimes, humour is how one copes with hunger. It soothes, but it never satisfies.
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My mind drifts back to the last time I had a good meal. Those moments are so rare, I can count them. A full stomach is a forgotten pleasure. I can only dream of being full.
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Those sleepless nights — eyes wide open, lying stomach-down on the floor. Sleep stolen, as I pay the harsh toll of hunger.
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Poverty is a disease — an infection. It eats the body through malnutrition, the mind through anxiety. It dresses itself in lack and feeds on shame.
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My room is in such a deplorable state, i lock it- not to keep thieves out, but to keep yhem from seeing inside. It would disgust them. There's nothing to steal but shame.
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I look at the utensils — clean, washed, and unused. They sit piled up, crying to be of use. They now serve to fuel my imagination. I dream of cooking a hot meal — one that will quench this hunger. I am a dreamer. Yes, I dream.
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How quickly clothes fade in poverty. One walks carefully, not to spoil worn shoes. Every step is gentle.
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Ever wonder what an honest peasant thinks of? It’s not revolution. It’s not glory. It’s food. My greatest ambition is to eat to my satisfaction. That is my dream.
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You may think I’m too obsessed with food. Don’t laugh. It’s the one thing that keeps me going. Without it, I will fall into the abyss of death, clutching my pitiful dream of fullness.
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I can boldly say: Give me food or I die. Another joke, perhaps. But one built on truth. Hunger will kill. And yet, I admire the strange creativity that poverty brings to the mind.
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Have you heard of the paradox of peasantry? It’s when the lack, the hunger, and the debt seem to have no effect. The body appears fine. Life looks normal. But inside — we are quietly perishing.
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Disgrace is part of a peasant’s life. Accepting it becomes the norm. Stand down. Don’t look up. Hide your face. I’ve learned that the hard way.
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Do you want to know how peasants are treated? Less than human. A poor man is a burden to himself. How much more to society? We are a discomfort, a disgrace no one wishes to confront.
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Overworked and paid in crumbs. Hours of hard labour are met with sneers. Crumbs are tossed into tired hands, with eyes that say, You don’t even deserve this. To them, it’s more fitting that we work ourselves to death.
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It’s not often you see men dying of hunger — but they do. Quietly, and daily. The anxiety, the longing, the distress, the discomfort — it’s worse than death itself.
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What more could be said, dear diary? The experience says it all. I write not for any grand reason, but simply for the sake of writing. Perhaps there is pleasure in expressing pain. The morning is still fresh. The air, still pure.
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Let the peasant go now,to find his daily bread
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