parallel worlds
We almost crashed that very day... but looking back I'm not sure about this anymore, given that, at this very time, probably I wasn't part of his world, he wasn't part of mine anyhow. It's been an astoundingly cold, grey winter noon, one of the days filled with the scent of smoke and morning mist, one of these days illuminated by the dim light of a winter sun all hidden by dense, high clouds, one of these days for people to hurry around, struggling to get out of the cold and into the warm surroundings of their offices and flats quickly.
Somehow he happened to walk past me that very day, walking with a stoop through the grey, surreal reflections of the cold world on the frozen surface of the sidewalk. He doesn't just look poor, looking at him almost makes me feel like him, feel the way his life is like in a frightenly intense way. His clothes look grey, worn and dirty, same as the skin of his face does. His hands, covered by thick, old gloves, are carrying two bleached-out supermarket bags, and for a single moment I understand him using them to carry around all his personal belongings, all his personal property in these two bags. I shiver...
Way behind him, the heart of the new city has come to life, tall buildings with roofs disappearing somewhere in the grey winter sky, restless people in motion amidst the darkness of the narrow streets, amidst the flickering, artificial light of supersized advertisement panels and shop windows. Somehow, the battle seems lost, the winners feasting upon the sad remains of the defeated, one more supermarket to arise from the ashes of a once-proud neighborhood, some more individual worlds refactured to represent the stereotypical, uniform face of the New Global World. There's no second option, conform or fall, and take a look at the defeated ones to get out of the way as everything seems to gain speed.
I look at him again... His eyes look to the ground; he turned his back on the world that's not his own anymore, looking for a better place somewhere else. And I make my way into the new day, trying to refuse asking myself for how long 'my' world still will persist...
Somehow he happened to walk past me that very day, walking with a stoop through the grey, surreal reflections of the cold world on the frozen surface of the sidewalk. He doesn't just look poor, looking at him almost makes me feel like him, feel the way his life is like in a frightenly intense way. His clothes look grey, worn and dirty, same as the skin of his face does. His hands, covered by thick, old gloves, are carrying two bleached-out supermarket bags, and for a single moment I understand him using them to carry around all his personal belongings, all his personal property in these two bags. I shiver...
Way behind him, the heart of the new city has come to life, tall buildings with roofs disappearing somewhere in the grey winter sky, restless people in motion amidst the darkness of the narrow streets, amidst the flickering, artificial light of supersized advertisement panels and shop windows. Somehow, the battle seems lost, the winners feasting upon the sad remains of the defeated, one more supermarket to arise from the ashes of a once-proud neighborhood, some more individual worlds refactured to represent the stereotypical, uniform face of the New Global World. There's no second option, conform or fall, and take a look at the defeated ones to get out of the way as everything seems to gain speed.
I look at him again... His eyes look to the ground; he turned his back on the world that's not his own anymore, looking for a better place somewhere else. And I make my way into the new day, trying to refuse asking myself for how long 'my' world still will persist...
kawazu - 25. Aug, 10:51
