The air was cold and thick. A typical Dickensian end of afternoon on the banks of the Thames, a forewarning of the harsh winter to come. Many people were still passing by, dancing through the bridges, twisting through the trees, toward the closest tube station, or the warmest cafe.

I was part of that choregraphy too, moving smoothly through the crow until an empty bench sucks me out of it. The instant I sat on the wet board, I disappeared. There without being there, bundled up in my numerous layers of wool, criss-crossing on my chest and swirling around my neck.

And all I could think of was all those persons who were passing through this patch of pavement, through this life that was mine and the diversity of lives humans lead on this planet. All those persons I got to meet and speak with or stalk through miles of cables and layers of clouds.

The crazy-minded and his improbable lover. A mere fluke and there they are, still  on the pictures, the frozen  000s and  1111s allowing a shard from a forgotten past to re-surface, brand as new on the young faces, with a scent of old spices, dust and candy floss.

The impossibly beautiful regularly impaired. Holed up in the centre of the world and still more connected to nature that I would ever be.

The ninja-scribbler, who knows how to wield a nice hat but not a pair of socks

The perfect son-in-law who does not seem to find his way to the altar despite the odds.

The lost Yasmina princess and her 1001-nights pitch black curls walking aimlessly waiting for the moment her life will start.

The peaceful warrior, training for a fight that may very well never come, through the green grass and the white snow,indefinitely cutting through the wind.

The musician with bare feet and a huge smile, who loves women but is only in love with his guitar. And in a corner, almost invisible, the quiet one, almost always mistaken for a shy one but only waiting for his turn to shine too.

The adorable grandma who’s now wearing my punk leather wristband.

Slowly but surely, the childish sounding circling song I am listening to guide the threads of my thoughts into a tapestry of the old ages. It’s a never ending merry go round of faces and names, rolling of the tongue and twirling in my heart, where everyone ends up as depicted as a fairytale hero.

Who would have thought that planting trees in volcanic soil could be a job, or that a hardcore metal singer would turn out to be an expert in literature?

So many paths have been revealed to making about them that makes me dizzy. But the absurdity and the nonsense of the situation are more than welcome. There are so many ways that my only worry now is that I will never get to know them all.

As the rain starts to fall down, I gather my bag and my memories, trying not to leave any behind, and I join the dance once again, zigzagging through the dog leashes and the babies buggies, avoiding pigeons and street gamblers to slip back onto the tracks of real life


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