The sky was pink-turning-mauve, shaded clouds and the sun’s last kiss as dusk rises to taste it. The city stares on, weaving and shaping below and I, walk.
Here are the boys on the corner smoking weed and eyeing women. Here’s the unclaimed person cursing under their breath or at the top of their lungs. There are the school kids messing around before dinner. There’s the business woman powering past with tormented precision. Here is the zombie, the screen slave, walking into you and never knowing you’re there. There are the pub-goers, the belchers, the football followers. Here’s the exhausted shop-keep who always smiles but never for himself. There are the young pros, lapping up the after work drinks and pretending they only smoke when they’ve had a few, prancers and posers, with all the optimism of unchecked youth. Here’s the proud new owner of a pizza place, that’s already sick of the smell, rethinking his hopes and questioning his dreams.
There’s my door, my wooden door.
So, one last glance at that perfect sunset, that unique skyscape and life flitting on below.
The utter wonder of it all: the transience, the fragility, the unending diversity and the wry predictability. What could possibly be more beautiful than that; the multi toned splendor of all those faces and stories, the simple beauty of the sky at sunset and the grey, ground, grit of this city. London.