SLIDER

Locked behind those eyes

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

cat

The feline sat perched upon the back of the couch. He poked his head through the curtains. He sat still, the only movement was that of his rhythmic breathing and the flick of his tail. He stared off into the dark distance, dreaming of what sort of adventures the following day would bring: a frolic in the green shrubbery, catching a delightful insect as a snack, or simply spending countless hours preening himself to perfection. 

He looked back at me for a moment and in that time we made eye contact, I wondered what he was thinking as his green eyes looked into my brown ones. That second felt like an eternity, but I did not dare to look away, in case I missed something key. Perhaps the answer to life itself remained locked behind those eyes. 

For an instant, I felt as though I could see past just the superficial outside and deep within his soul, so far inside that not one thought entered my head. Then, as if by the will of some force above, he looked away and hopped down onto my legs, circled around, and found a comfy spot for slumber.

Life in Vancouver

Monday, September 05, 2011

rose
An Engagement,  August 2011
tranquility
Tranquility, August 2011
flower
Nature's Nirvana, August 2011

I sit at Delany’s. The smell of coffee rises like heat. It wafts through my nostrils. A man sips on his coffee as he walks out the door. Across the street is a falafel stand. The cookie store next to it is now non-existent. An orange and black “FOR RENT” sign hangs in the window; it is as barren as a womb within. People of all shapes and forms walk by. One looks at the ground then back at her phone as she texted some unknown being on the other side. A woman with a sloppy bun atop her head blocks my view. I divert my attention to her. She carries a frothy looking coffee drink in her right hand and plops down at the table and chair outside. She skims through the newspaper and rests the cup in her hand. She takes a petite sip and puts a lid on it, as if signifying the end of an internal argument: to keep it hot or to not? That is the question. She sits still, like a stone statue, and as if by cue she then moves. She rests her chin on the balled up fist on the table. “It’s time to get picky” is the title of one of the articles. It’s unknown if she is reading it, but her lack of movement signifies her devoted reading of something. All the others who were sitting outside have vanished as if by a magic spell. Messy bun girl is perched on the wicker seating alone. An empty mug, a spoon, and a used pack of brown sugar are the only trace of human life. Now it’s my turn to leave. Without looking back, I abandon the girl and instead take a look at Tegan’s rusty green bike chained against a street sign. It’s a day in the life in Vancouver.

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