Fiction

17 Minutes

i.

Last night I saw someone that I wanted to talk to
because he looked interesting
but I heard a snippet of an ongoing conversation
he was having and it sounded dreadfully dull.
Where do people get the drive to endlessly regurgitate
their epiphanies and why are they content
listening to the same drivel over and over
and over?

ii.

The world can be a beautiful place
when you let go. Light falls in
perfect places, skipping across the surface
of things, and shines with a degree of shyness.
People hide behind their glasses of water,
flasks of whiskey, cans of beer, cameras, cigarettes, music,
conversation but their souls emerge
as if rising out of some darkness into the clear,
blue light of day. And voices are clearer,
insights sharper and words ring like a church bell
with an element of honesty.

iii.

At Little India, an old man was playing his sitar
to a gathered group of late-night shoppers
and the Chinese owners of the shop next door.
The street was empty and silent and every nuance of his plucking resounded beautifully.

I would love to meet someone
who can carry a conversation
like a melody, a musician,
the agent of divinity,
only to be left breathless and rejuvenated at the end
of seventeen minutes.

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