(no subject)
Random people awaken my mind. It's like clairvoyance - if I look a little farther than their faces I can see beyond. I wish I could come up to them in the street and ask questions until the sky falls down. But of course that's not really an option, so I see my own visions of their tales.
Tell me, old lady with face wrinkled like a discarded piece of paper, why are you here? What on earth makes you fight your way down the empty street, slow like a sunset? What purpose do you serve?
Tell me, elderly man, standing bolt upright with a walking stick clutched in your hand, why are you here? Did someone leave you there alone? Are you waiting for them to come back?
Tell me, beautiful Thai woman, why are you here? Why did you leave your home, your land? Do you have here what you hoped for? Do you regret having come? Do you remember your friends who still wait back at home?
Stranger's faces speak volumes to me, quite literally. But why is it that whenever I reach the end of some page in my own book, I cannot turn it and go on? I reach a full stop and then I'm kicking, shoving, scratching with my nails till the page is raw and inflamed, red inkblots spreading on it from within.
And when the page is turned, a single glance is enough to send the book flying from my hands. It lands on the floor like and anvil, leaving me empty-handed.
Emma picked up her book, heaving open the front cover, and started reading again.
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This was written on the way to work. Whereas now I'm having fun because I've nothing to do...