London Baby
That unease you feel when you’re becoming ‘at one’ with that
gentleman’s armpit on the 8.05 is not in fact a moment of microcosmic clarity where
life, you realise, is pointless- no, that ripple is the recognition that you’re
being pulled in a current that is not necessarily your own and semi-jogging
through Bank it’s no more than a flutter, it’s no more than an itch at King
Cross or a trapped nerve at Clapham junction but it will pervade and get you in
your sleep until you voice it; if I'm not hurrying somewhere too then my god
I must be useless.
Run baby run, because if they jostle and jam, you must pant
and puff to fit in with the chorus, for if you voice such blasphemies as “After
you, I’m not in a rush,” then there must be less value in the footsteps you are
pressing into the pavement. All those shiny shoes have no time to slow for on-coming
shoulders, bumping bones and silent sorry’s. Can you imagine how great their purpose
must be that they have no eyes for those begging for a burger at Fenchurch street, no eyes for the light on the river, for the birds that still sing at St
Pauls. They are not alone because they are in a hurry, but you are if you stop.
So run baby run.
New look New Space.
http://melodys-pen.tumblr.com/
