once in a lifetime

Whatever there is up there had sent down the colours of a rainbow and splashed soft red across the hills. It was very early morning on the train. You were all busy with other views. Reading books, absorbing newspapers, texting messages, working on PCs.

I saw it.

get a life

Someone had taken something that belonged to you. And because you don't know how to communicate, you led a child to the tribunal. You used the easy way out. You didn't need to get involved. It didn't take guts. You didn't need to understand. You chose the place and the way which allowed you and your frustrations to hide behind the judicial machine.

very important people

They had read, criticised, discussed and finally judged her text. They had taken her story apart. Unveiled all its secrets, dissected all its meanings, understood all its nuances.

There was no curiosity for the mind which had written it though. No interest in the author who had created it.

But they gave her a prize for it.
Drank some champagne in the name of it.
And had their photo taken for the sake of it.

perspective

You were walking down the street bent over double. Something just below your shoulders must have caved in and left you watching life one head lower than you had been used to. But you didn't seem to mind. It hadn't taken the mischief away from you. Or your smile. You couldn't lift your head anymore so you turned it sideways. The world was all the richer for you now because you had been given the opportunity to see it from a different angle.

Geneva is full of them

Your whole face had dropped under the pull of frustration. Eyes judgemental. Lips thin. Jaw heavy. Years of comfort had shrivelled your thoughts. Years of convenient indolence had twisted your fate. Nourished mediocrity. The lack of life was pouring out of you.

Silk scarf. Little black bag hanging off your frail wrist. Neat navy-blue shoes. Skin-coloured stockings. Expensive black leather gloves. You had everything outside. Inside, there was hardly anything left to see. And what remained was so crumpled and wrinkled that nothing could have evened out the creases.

Fabrice told me this story

When you were a little boy of ten, one day you felt the need for pocket money. You knew your mother or father wouldn't give you any. So you chose a dining-room chair, dragged it down the stairs, heaved it onto your little boy shoulders, and took it to the antique shop down the road. It was a beautiful piece of furniture and the man inside gave you exactly what you had hoped for. Twenty francs.

Your father gave you what you were half expecting too.

i wonder who you were

She bounced into the café. Short short hair. Black black skin. And a smile that made your heart melt. I smiled back. She came up to me, shook my hand and whispered into my ear "I've lost my voice." Then moved on to tell anyone else in the café who would tilt their head to lend her an ear too.

We left the café. So did she. Short hair, black skin, white smile. She caught up and squeezed her way between us. Giggling with mischief. Out loud she announced to us that she had to meet someone but didn't really want to go, and as she left to cross the road she wished us both 'Monsieur et Madame' a lovely evening.