If poverty strips me of dignity, why is there stigma in a journey that hasn’t found how to flourish? There is a multicolored fan within poverty, the poorest in life are the poor of empathy, the poor can be whoever lacks basic dignity, toward oneself but others as well. When I say, I am poor and point to a wallet until there are stretch marks, that is not what I should mean. Poverty should not address the size of an account but a lack. If I lack sincerity, I am poor. If I lack humility, I am poor. If I lack amiability, I am poor. If I lack civility, I am poor. If I lack a mirror to observe my reflection as I hurt another, I am the poorest. I am poor because I lack the necessary to find joy in offering rather than taking. I am poor because I lack the insight to give those who lack food, a drop of giveness, those who lack water, a well that nourishes the abyss of hurt until the swollen throat can speak, can denounce the stolen. If I listen to those who have lacked water, food, bare essentials, I would feel naked. There’s a barrier between us and knowledge. If I do know, why do I feel disdain toward the poor? It is because I am poor but deny it. I deny my poorness because it can’t be seen, it can’t be touched, it can’t be counted, can't be measured, yet I am poor. I'm the poorest of the poor as I seek for recognition while dismissing those who also seek for my approval. If my entire attention could be contained in an embrace, that moment would linger in a forever that can’t be bought, can’t be sold, can't be tainted, can't be broken in sorrow. Richness is not found in a shop window, but in a photographic stillness that finds transcendence in a motion toward the immaterial whose precious desire is to allow a space for growth.