Our beloved, fleeting time

Today we are talking about the streets. As simple as that. Don’t worry, nothing philosophical. I will leave the rocket science discussion for later. Please relax, take your shoes off if you want – barefoot is acceptable – and come. Can’t promise we won’t get lost. 

I feel like there are millions of stories to be told. From the smallest insect crossing the road to the biggest skyscraper, they are all written in colours. And here we are, somewhere in between, us, human beings. And above all, a ticking clock.  

Time. Our beloved, fleeting time. 

The artists of the streets who’s got the brushes and the colours. Just because we don’t always understand the painting it does not mean that it’s less beautiful.  

You see, sometimes we need to step back from the crowd. Think. Rest. Absorb. Breathe. Right there, on the side. It won’t be so bad, I promise. Forget about all the what-ifs and other infant questions.

Give yourself time, but don’t get too comfortable. There are so many ventures waiting for you on this planet. 

You don’t want to miss the next painting, the next street, the next opportunity, the next risk, the next disappointment, the next blessing. You don’t wanna miss your life. 

How will you ever find out which one is your painting?  

If only they could talk, if only we could listen. 

Nice talk about the streets, right?

Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin.

Mother Theresa

You, Little Time Traveller

You are here. It is almost as intimidating as staring at a completely blank page. You don’t know where to look first, you don’t know if you should start with a word or simply with an exclamation mark. Overwhelmed, nervous, and full of aspiration you take one step and it begins.

Typing. Walking. One more step. One more word. The cars are roaring and the words are fluttering their wings in your head. Is this the contemporary waltz? Or a lost battle between concrete and abstract? The mesmerising atmosphere is leading the dance. Grey, blue, grey and blue, dusty blue, and ashy grey. This is your stage.

The page is not blank anymore. Slowly, slowly the waltz helps you to move on or forward.

You, little time traveller. You enjoy it so much, don’t you? No, you don’t even realise that at some point, the music must stop. Oh no!

We always think it is too soon.

The end got you exactly in front of the statue. You are so dazed… it’s hard to say if Eros is alive, or you are made of cold steel. The Victorian buildings are back in place. The windows silent again, but the cement decorations will always remind you of the royal ballroom. And you smile.

Nothing compares with the moment after the curtain falls. You put on paper everything that needs to be shouted. Now, please wake up and remember that one day, you danced in Piccadilly Circus. Full stop.

Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.

Voltaire