I am the passenger
And I ride, and I ride...

The coffee shop, the restaurant, the bar, the art opening. I never know what I'm doing there, but I go there nonetheless. There's the cold blast of a door constantly opening, the clunk of it sucking itself shut. The sound of heels on bare floors, murmurs over wine glasses or coffee mugs. Constant noise that I never cause, joyous yelling and squeals of delight, and street traffic.

People-watching is an art form that I have down. People who make me wonder where their effortless style comes from. The pairing of this crazy scarf with that crazy dress. The ability to find the perfect boots, the ones that I never see in any of the stores I frequent. But also the people who aren't quite so stylish. The people who are downright bizarre-looking, and don't seem to care. People who are so into their books or laptops that they never look up. People who are alone and obviously lonely, waiting for someone to talk to them.

People rarely see me stare, but there are those who seem to feel it. People who seem to feel my eyes and turn completely around to look right at me. I always wonder if they're like me, if that's why they feel it and immediately need to know who's looking.

I tell myself that I'm constantly watching because I want to write, and I need accurate observations to write well. But the truth is that I am fascinated by and addicted to the idea that I see everyone without anyone ever seeing me.


A Fuss said…
yesterday on the train I saw a guy in a carhart jacket. And I thought of you.

Popular Posts