I sit by the corner of the street, the silence in the hustle-bustle screeches through the vacuity of a tired soul. The men hurrying through the signals, women worrying about their chores, with the baggage of their responsibilities and sensibilities torn apart. The children, all shapes and sizes, toddlers to the kite runners; clamped to the mothers’ embrace, fighting for a let-loose ; some carrying the burdens of their school on their backs, sagging shoulders with its weight… The old and the lively, the young and the despirited, the men by the grocery shop, the men by the petrol bunk. the women in the temples, the women in the brothels. The women worshipped, the women abused.
I live by the corner of the street, watching people’s lives through the racing fleet.
Nothing to break the pattern, the same ticks-tocks, the same taps of the shoes, the same fleeting bodies with the souls void.. The trickle of the sweat comes from the money not earned well or from the fret for the money spent little too much. The little babies wailing for tenderness lost in the mechanical to-dos of life, mothers clamping forward for the daily rotes of an entrepreneurial jobs ; a look -undeserved fallen but taken away from me.. The alms were little too much to be spared away but I was not stuck there for any pennies. It was just a refusal to be carried away,torn in the storms of life. It was a halt to be free from the body and the Soul, to gather a better reckoning of the world around from the spot fixed. To wait for the eventual strike of the dagger or for the want of euthanasia for I lack the audacity myself. To feel the wind in my hair and the breath in my lungs.
Till its all taken by the tempest, the mighty and the Potent.