I am a woman of a thousand faces, everytime I look in the mirror, I see a different person. I sit and do horrible things to my face and then I go to the city and think and think. On the train into the city I sit across from a guy in super short shorts and floppy hair, a man with a mohawk and another with grey hair, a woman in a suit and I wonder what it would be like if I could see their souls. In the bookstore in the city, I think as I grow older I humanise those announcer voices over the intercom more, I wonder who they are and why they are, and sometimes I like them, and I think I’d like them based on a high octave or a low note or two or the edge at the end of a thank you or a name pronounced with gusto. And as I sit reading in the bookstore, a story of a child flippantly putting adults into boxes, boxes the child can afford cuz she is young and intelligent and hasn’t gone through years and years of time to know that there is more to a teacher than just the subject the teacher teaches or more to the newspaper man than his hat and his vacant smile, or more to the dead music maestros husband than his heels and his odd way of talking.
How when I grow older, I seem to see a bit more than youth and intelligence, I see time and space and things almost solidified and how it wears the mind, and how I may be young and feel old or I may be old and feel young, so young. And remembering that I was likely once a thoughtless, careless child too, and it was my right to be that way, and be happy.
I think about how each book in the pile in the little cart in front of me as I sit reading in the bookstore in the city, is a whole soul, a whole world, a whole consciousness, and each feels different to the senses, tastes different to me.
The imprint that the walk home from the city has on my mind, when Im home I long for the very edges of the city skyline, and when I’m out I long for my bed again.