Windows are the eyes to the souls that pass by.
The small cafe, a platform of observation for the everyday voyeur to the hustle and bustle of city life.
Harsh winds and icy rain marr the faces of the concrete jungle natives. To long ago they bought into the cosmopolitan life and now pay the price.
The watcher chuckles at the futility of it all. The city will not remember their years of service. It will merely consume the next schmuck that dreams of the big city.
The cafe is warm and aromatic. A single shop, the last of its kind among the chains and franchises. None too trendy but perfect for watching the world go by.
The lovers hold hands and sip hot chocolate in matching grey coats. Muffled voices over the hiss of the milk frother.
Observing their happiness, the watcher smiles and returns to the window. Fast pace no time to waste go getting in the rat race.
Business and tourism combine to make a buzzing humming constant drumming that drives the gentle insane.
The watcher by the window takes out book and pen. No wires and flash; just paper, ink and the eyes that see and hands that write the observations through the window.
Pins and needles
The smallest prick of the skin
Sharp and direct
No one can see them so are they there?
Jab and withdraw
Some have it to an art
Precise and sly
More damaging than the fist
A remark, a retort
Chipping away at ones sanity
A tiger, a bear
Sick of the torment, the jabs the spikes
They know what it’s like
A reaction a defence
But it is them who take the blame
The horrified stares
The shaking heads
And the label
Is it right?
You are unique
But are you?
Aren’t you just like everyone else
You try so hard to be
You once didn’t care
A jolly laugh and scruffy hair
The phone that you spent your last penny on was once a cheerful plastic friend with a smiley face. He didn’t need to be upgraded.
Fashion was just a word to explain the cut up doll clothes and marker pen makeup
The random spinning and frantic wiggling has been replaced with a dance confined to a half meter square and involves self discipline and just the right pose.
Yes I do believe we are somewhat unique at first. We are free to be
But now? As you take the seventy third selfie of the day
As you adorn yourself with the popular fashion of the minute and force your hair to comply with what is on trend
Are you still as unique?
And is it all as fun as it was when you didn’t even know what a hashtag was?
What actually happens when you break from that group of clones?
Nothing. You don’t combust or lose everything. You’re just fine
No need to check social media. The trend today is whatever you make it.
The days hot topics don’t need hash tags and the food you eat is your choice not the most dominant “friend’s”
Don’t like that? Gone
Like that? Great!
No it’s not uncool. What does that even mean?
Fun isn’t it!
Now. Are you unique?
If I knew Henry VIII I doubt he would find me impressive
He would wonder why my hair was so short and all different colours
He would enquire as to why I am 25 years old and unmarried
He would assume that I am barren as I have no children
The piercings? “Why that ring through your nose is an adornment for cattle young lady”
At dinner, when I refuse to eat all the animals in the uk and send back the dairy he will undoubtedly accuse me of being an ungrateful little madam with no appreciation for the feast he had prepared
The post dinner entertainment would be more akin to a presidential debate or a fist fight. No doubt, I would argue my opinion ferociously and his majesty would have a heart attack at my shocking insolence and sheer cheek.
Yes. I think he’d rather like having me around ;P
(seems the times havent quite changed as much as we like to think)
A word to the wise
The strong man is never as expected
The weaker may surprise
Not arms nor legs nor shoulders defined
Not a strong brow or piercing eyes
Strength has not a physical form
It sits deep within the chest
Its doing your best, trying against all odds
He who is strong is unafraid to love
to laugh, to cry, to play, to work
He takes it in his stride, quietly being solid
He may not be the loudest or the daredevil
he may be the carer, the supporter, the safety of home
But he is strong, he is always true to himself
He is everything to those he loves and they him.
Yes, physicality is also strength
but don’t discount all others
you may find you have missed gold while mining for iron
Tango of Passion by Leonid Afremov
Dance with me
Hold my hands and lead me
Press your body against mine
I am your canvas and you are my frame
Let us paint a picture of crimson and sienna
Brush strokes that bring us closer
Every line in perfect synchronisation
Dance with me
Paint a picture of love and rhythm
Of desire and heat
For this moment we are one
Fleeting but perfect
An innocent dance?