I belong to the race of slouchers, of
averagely inert citizens. Every now and again I have to pinch myself. I
notice the way I behave in company, at work, with my office colleagues. Is
that guy in the lift mirror really me? The young man forcing a laugh by the
coffee machine? I don’t recognize him. I have come from so far that I still
feel astonished to be here. My colleagues talk about the weather or what’s
on TV. I can’t listen to them anymore. I’m having trouble breathing. I loosen
my shirt collar. My clothes restrict me. I stare at my polished shoes: they
gleam, offering a disappointing reflection. What has become of my feet?
They’re in hiding. I never walk barefoot outdoors these days. I wander over
to the window. Under the low-hanging sky, through the gray sticky drizzle, there’s not a single mango tree in the tiny park wedged between the
shopping center and the railway lines. (page 10 and 11) [@fayeSmallCountry2018]

lost and disappointed. The feel of isolation and violation against his own mind (not being able to bare foot, )