London, c'est moi

London, the mongrel city of a thousand voices, of a thousand and one dreams....

On the tube: an African woman reading the Quran, two crackheads discussing the best drugs to take, a Russian couple in love, a banker with a deeply furrowed brow, talking to himself, calculating, calculating...the East Europeans, still free enough to laugh unconsciously, like children.

Up above: Bentham and his rationalism in the abstract city.Then from nowhere a soft breeze blows this way and a few blossoms fall on my eyelids and I remember that Blake lived here as well.

Near the church:
a hearse passes by and an old man doffs his cap and stands to attention; does he "think" about this, or is it something he has learnt from his grandfather, a custom from time out of mind that he instinctively follows, not knowing why? Moved inwardly by love or outwardly be tradition? What is "inside" here and what "outside"?

On my way home:
a tramp asks me: "did you have a good day?"
Same day, same life.
"Yeah, not bad" I say, lying through my teeth, going through the rituals "And you?"
He has the gentlest of smiles...what would I know he says in the shrug of his shoulders. His face is burnt and he stinks to high heaven. What is it like to live a day facing reality, without the pretense, without the falsity of society, alone in the universe?

I place a pound coin in his outsretched hand; the curve of it folds in on it, neither accepting nor rejecting it.
"I need twelve for a roof tonight".
So much for marginal economics!

I walk on by.

I am alive , but life without beauty seems pointless.
But no, to be alive is everything. Even if we are ashes, invisible to the world, nothing but thoughts in the underground, we still dream of being leaves and dream a thousand dreams of open spaces, of drfiting and landing softly near the beloved.

VLADIMIR: We have our reasons.
ESTRAGON: All the dead voices.
VLADIMIR: They make a noise like wings.
ESTRAGON: Like leaves.
VLADIMIR: Like sand.
ESTRAGON: Like leaves.
[Silence.]
VLADIMIR: They all speak together.
ESTRAGON: Each one to itself.
[Silence.]
VLADIMIR: Rather they whisper.
ESTRAGON: They rustle.
VLADIMIR: They murmur.
ESTRAGON: They rustle.
[Silence.]
VLADIMIR: What do they say?
ESTRAGON: They talk about their lives.
VLADIMIR: To have lived is not enough for them.
ESTRAGON: They have to talk about it.
VLADIMIR: To be dead is not enough for them.
ESTRAGON: It is not sufficient.
[Silence.]
VLADIMIR: They make a noise like feathers.
ESTRAGON: Like leaves.
VLADIMIR: Like ashes.
ESTRAGON: Like leaves.
[Long silence.]