It is a mixing bowl of culture, merging people, colour, flavour. Yet some are left behind. Some escape to a world where they can just sit and watch. Where they can just be.
And for this they are forgotten. We are forgotten. Lost beneath the layers of a towering society, people scared of the monsters hiding deep within the basement. Monsters that, like most, are no more than illusions; the quiver of a shadow, a trick of the light.
But what can you do, anyway? You who stand atop this great building, touching the clouds with your fingertips, feeling the sun close, warm, on your face. I’ll tell you, if you care to listen, if you care to take the time. You can slow, shudder, stop, just for a moment.

Look at what’s around you; that bird or that leaf or that child.  Resist that tug of civilisation, and cling to humanity. Anchor yourself for a second.  Turn to glimpse what lies behind you, and look into the eyes of the fallen.

I hope you have learnt something from this blog.

She asked me was i ok.

Are you ok?

Four syllables imbued with so much meaning; someone hadn’t asked me that for years.

The conflicting facets of my anti-existence were at war. I considered my life now; rich with a heathen kind of philosophy, anthropology. Rich with the thoughts and reflections i could no longer contain.

I was disgusted at the thought of returning to this kind of human interaction, the kind that is empty – full of the promise of intimacy, friendship, happiness, but concealing what it is that is so horrifying. That universal knowledge that to love, is to lose. And this cannot be escaped.

She did not illicit a response.

Watches are useless; they only give assurance, a number on which to rest. But this time is not constant; it bucks and kicks, leaping from the ground then landing broken in a pile, resting for what seems an eternity, until it gets up and limps on.

I’ve become able to rule time, grabbing fistfuls of it, stuffing it into my pockets to be stored, squirrel-like for seasons. For the most part, I simply let it swirl and ripple, content to carry on at speeds that, for most people, seem agonizingly slow and meandering. But this pace gives you chances to see, to appreciate all those little things that steal past the gaze of the masses. All those things that really matter.  The wilted arm of an ancient traveller, skin like tissue paper. The welling eyes of a woman in grief. The light, momentary touch of a stranger as our paths collide for just one moment.

All these things are so miniscule, yet they create a patchwork of interconnecting moments that form the only comfort i can find, anywhere.

I should know, that was me three years ago. But I waded too far, too deep. I sunk. And here I am on the gritty floor, squinting through an undulating screen, a watery barrier. You get used to it, eyes growing accustomed to this warped, removed vision. It’s what my friend Billy used to call “streeties eyes”, a kind of sixth sense, a way of seeing something. That was Billy though, never satisfied until he found a different angle, a way in which he could turn the bleakest situation into a resounding positive. He was a friend, an ally in this constant struggle to tread water, to keep your head. He had only been on the streets for a year, toppling from his social perch to land amongst the debris, the fallen. Yet he never lost his enthusiasm; he was propelled by this innate sense of hope, of faith in the world. This quality was out of place, rare, exploited. Lucid, like a glowing red beacon in a foggy sea. And they saw this. Destitute youths who wander the town, pack animals, assurance in numbers. They are the opportunistic scavengers, descending on the scent of a cheap meal, a weak beggar with nowhere to run. I guess that’s what happened to Billy. They spied his kindness, his naivety. And they stripped him of everything.

There were no blaring sirens, no emergency lights, nothing to herald a loss of life, a tragedy. The pavement was washed, sterilised, made presentable for the polished shoes of the consumer. But these are stories of sadness – that’s all that is left. Meagre ammunition for a starry night and a campfire. But what is a story without an audience? It is nothing; abstract; meaningless.

Not many people catch my attention anymore, however this man was quite unique.

He sat next to me at the bus stop, the wave of air created smelling simultaneously of fish, and cabbage. I do not care for such trivial details now however – i am well acquainted with the smell of unclean human flesh.

I noticed that he was wheeling a bag of sorts – more like a trolley, that was brimming with non-descript clothes and newspaper. This was attached to him via a piece of yarn, tied first through a hole in his shirt pocket, and a second time to the brim of his terry towelling bucket hat. As i began to look more closely, i realised that everything on his person was in some way linked within an intricate network of yarn, that was attached in various places to his body; wrists, ankels, glasses, shirt.

It was an incredibly complex system that he had employed, to ensure that nothing that was his could ever be misplaced or stolen.

The care with which he had devised such a plan struck me as both incredibly eccentric, and sad. He could not bear to lose one morsel of himself; one material possesion. He was clinging to everything that confirmed his humanity, yet these items did not make him any more human than me.