Luzzio

This is me washing dishes and cups, my hands expertly twirling the red and blue rimmed knobs of the tap, one which doesn’t seem to be able to sustain a balance of the water’s temperature, as if a gravitational force was on each side, pulling a hypothetical point of temperature to it’s extreme destiny as hard as it fights to enjoy the best of both worlds, and remain where it wants to.

This is me walking down Market Street with Primark shopping bag in one hand, labeled clothes in the other, my eyes avoiding eye contact with the swarm of metropolitans, an avoidance taking up far less space in my mind than the sight I can see and am trying to unsee, of a worn-looking east european gentleman sitting on a plastic stool in front of H & M. His play of the flute is pitifully amateurish, an instrument he wields with no more than five notes, far less entertaining than the accordion player just a block down, or the silver painted woman who shakes your hand for half a quid. His cardboard box has a few silver coins, but no golden single pounds. This is me walking by with bags in hand, remembering my resolve each night before to drop this man a pittance, and yet can not physically move to do so. The weight of inconvenience and momentum is too heavy and strong to halt me in my journey home as the legs refuse to stop, pushed on by the invisible current of a thousand routines around me. And so many eyes, so many opinions and non-chalancity, an invisible barrier whose existence is too solid to walk through. Wise words given before, “He’s probably got a Rolls-Royce down the corner”, more spite now to me than advise. Encapsulating this paragraph, this is me walking by.

Maybe tomorrow.