Walking around one of probably the busiest cities in the country can make your mind fly. It can perch on the fact that the mirrored walls actually feed the hunger of the different types of vanities in the center business district. How we all like to see our reflections on the shiny facades of the buildings, how we like to see people see us in our thousand peso attires holding our yuppie puppie drinks with customized names. We eat many an assorted menu of vanities everyday. It is a voyeur-voyeur juxtaposition and we consume it the way we think we're supposed to.
Another moment fleets and lets it fly to the fact that these handsome and gorgeous fellows we meet as we walk past each other, these strangers that we look at indirectly through our aviators, keyholes and clubmasters are all rushing off to someplace else. Maybe they rush to the noodle joint atop the fast food stop to end up in a corner trying to scroll down their feeds and walls. We never know how grandiose their hiding really is. We feel it but we just can't quantify.
Then the bird flies to the thought of seeing a woman in her pencil skirt, flowing straight auburn hair down to her shoulders. You'll bet she's gorgeous and sweet and intelligent and kind. She walks down the polished street with her foxy gait. She holds a purse on her left hand and a cup of coffee on the right. I remember someone I love. I remember her though I never saw her that way. And the thought flies away as I fail in making a face out of her lithe and nubile figure. Her silhouette maybe was enough.
And it perches itself on the premise of strangers in the underpass. The men and women in different rhythms and cadences. You can tell that they come from different time zones. The poorer members of the caste walk faster into a run. They have sweat on their brows and they wear semi-smart clothes. You never feel the aura of the higher-ups. For all you know, they may be scholars and distinguished persons only rushing to catch their reflections on the mirrored city. The higher-ups walk slower, in their crisp uniforms and designer things. They bask in the glow of the underpass lights. They still have their Ray-Bans on.
Just a bunch of nondescript scriptures in the mirrored city. And the thought flies into the afternoon heat. It withers as it watches its reflection on the mirrored walls. Its feathers wither side by side the prisms of watching eyes. I look at its reflection on a mirror bouncing off light in another bouncing off another from one further down the perpetual cycle of the vanities.
Her gander is so memorable. It made my heart flutter into a futile spark. She won't amount, I bet she's not even real. Though I bet she's fucking pretty.