this is how I feel when I am tranquil in the city, taking other spider threads of whirling lives and spinning story webs around me.
It´s one thing to be white and rich, dreadlocks and bars, laughter and living, gritty urban beauty; it´s another altogether to hawk roses to strangers in kebab houses at midnight. Where do you consume your culture, you sad middle aged man, scratching a desperate living, thousands of miles away from your birthplace? What happens if noone buys a flower? Do you have food? A safe bed? A pension? A woman? A future?
A city is built on layers and layers of humans, there is much a tourist does not, cannot see. When I want a beer at 3am, an anonymous human will provide one, so I can return to a scratchy, sketchy hangout for lonely people, walking though a city that noone can take hold of.
There will be no more walking, for a while. No more uncertainty, no more hard physical effort. I have the prizes, a better body, a better head, memories of owls and moonlight and grapes and water and the silent sounds that fill the spaces where humans aren´t. Now I must return to living. I have a place to stay, I have a future, I know what will happe to me allllllllll the way to next April. An expanse of the same bed, of the same view, of a kitchen shared with a friend and of time. Time and time and time is what my winter gives me. Nothing to do except fill empty pages. I am ready for this. I will create a chrysalis of rustling paper, page by page and emerge, next year, skin shed, new.