The Aborigines say that when all seems pointless and you’ve lost your way, you must start to walk and keep on walking until you meet yourself. Then you will be lost no more.
I’m paraphrasing of course, but the idea is a solid one. Just keep on walking until you find yourself again, as the world is round you always come back to the beginning and as the wheel turns… Well, the imagery is timeless even if it’s started to become cliché in this day and age. Humans, always so swift to disregard the truth, if for no other reason than it has been said too often. Like that somehow makes it less true.
I’ve been walking for a long while now and I’ve caught glances of myself from time to time, but still it’s not close enough. This road that I find myself on, in this godforsaken city, spreads out like hot, simmering coals and ashes before me as I go. The air shimmering with moisture and light, mirages dancing just to the side of my vision where I can’t fully interpret what they mean. It’s a damn hot day.
This city I find myself in is an old one, but the stories I see around me are all of contemporary people. Men with tail-coats and women in evening dresses of a myriad colors pass me by. Spreading out as they walk towards the great concert hall like a giant version of the fans some of them are holding. It’s a spectacular sight, but I can’t help but notice the contrast to the gray and brown clad beggars lining the streets as well. The man with his missing left leg sitting on the same place begging for money during the same hours each day with a distant look in his face. The same distance I read in these fortunate faces despite the make-up and monocles that aim to accentuate the eyes. They don‘t see or they don‘t want to see, or maybe they‘ve just seen so much they just can‘t bear to notice anymore. I don‘t know, but it‘s a strange experience nevertheless.
Watching these golden people and these silvered beggars by the house facades that are starting to fade in color and the glistening marble floors, I feel as if I’ve been caught up in a juxtaposition in time. And, this curious feeling reminds me that though history might be intangible and therefore exciting, it is still just the same old stories about the same old people, only a bit dustier. Well, a mite bit dustier, this town has never been very clean I do not think. It’d be hard with the south winds bringing sand all the way from Sahara on a spectacularly windy day.
Speaking of sand, the beach looks unusually beckoning today, as the thermometer keeps climbing despite the late hour. I think I’ll go fetch a towel. Maybe I’ll find myself in the waves. Or, maybe I’ll just forget I should be looking. Some say that that’s when I’ll finally find what I’m searching for. It’s as good an idea as any, and as I said; it’s a damn hot day. . .
I’m paraphrasing of course, but the idea is a solid one. Just keep on walking until you find yourself again, as the world is round you always come back to the beginning and as the wheel turns… Well, the imagery is timeless even if it’s started to become cliché in this day and age. Humans, always so swift to disregard the truth, if for no other reason than it has been said too often. Like that somehow makes it less true.
I’ve been walking for a long while now and I’ve caught glances of myself from time to time, but still it’s not close enough. This road that I find myself on, in this godforsaken city, spreads out like hot, simmering coals and ashes before me as I go. The air shimmering with moisture and light, mirages dancing just to the side of my vision where I can’t fully interpret what they mean. It’s a damn hot day.
This city I find myself in is an old one, but the stories I see around me are all of contemporary people. Men with tail-coats and women in evening dresses of a myriad colors pass me by. Spreading out as they walk towards the great concert hall like a giant version of the fans some of them are holding. It’s a spectacular sight, but I can’t help but notice the contrast to the gray and brown clad beggars lining the streets as well. The man with his missing left leg sitting on the same place begging for money during the same hours each day with a distant look in his face. The same distance I read in these fortunate faces despite the make-up and monocles that aim to accentuate the eyes. They don‘t see or they don‘t want to see, or maybe they‘ve just seen so much they just can‘t bear to notice anymore. I don‘t know, but it‘s a strange experience nevertheless.
Watching these golden people and these silvered beggars by the house facades that are starting to fade in color and the glistening marble floors, I feel as if I’ve been caught up in a juxtaposition in time. And, this curious feeling reminds me that though history might be intangible and therefore exciting, it is still just the same old stories about the same old people, only a bit dustier. Well, a mite bit dustier, this town has never been very clean I do not think. It’d be hard with the south winds bringing sand all the way from Sahara on a spectacularly windy day.
Speaking of sand, the beach looks unusually beckoning today, as the thermometer keeps climbing despite the late hour. I think I’ll go fetch a towel. Maybe I’ll find myself in the waves. Or, maybe I’ll just forget I should be looking. Some say that that’s when I’ll finally find what I’m searching for. It’s as good an idea as any, and as I said; it’s a damn hot day. . .
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