London’s Wall Street

Canary Wharf.

If you never been there when the lunch pause starts, you can’t really imagine it. You can smell it watching the huge buildings almost starting a battle of modernity, height, weight, almost trying to be more impressive than the ones surrounding them.

But you can really taste it when you go to take an hamburger in a nice, very crowded place.  And you see… all these snakes in a nice suit, trying to eat each other. Gestures, glances, everything shouts COMPETITION, you can clearly tell there is no friend inside that small piece of world. Only businness, with no real allies.

It could be for work, or for looking better, or for looking more professional, or for a woman, for their CAR, whatever they do, you can almost see the ruler which they constantly measure each other with. You can imagine them starting a huge cold inner war about businness cards, like in American Psycho, and I’m not kidding, not even a bit.

You can feel the relief of the girl who serves you, in seeing a face that doesn’t actually smell like manager of whatever. Even if she’s actually talking with a manager, at least he’s in vacation with someone he doesn’t compete with. She’s gentle, she smiles a lot, she wants to talk. She wants to welcome you. That’s when you understand more than everything you’re FAR from your homeland, and it doesn’t feel bad at all.

There’s only one relaxed face aside yours, and it quite sparkles in all that… poisonous darkness. He’s kinda old, and he’s talking with a guy at the bar. Smiles, sips a glass of white wine. He knows his position, he doesn’t have to fight with anyone, he’s there with his wine and it’s alright.

Then his phone rings, he slowly gets up, and as he picks up the phone, he’s suddently the darkest of them all. The devil himself, you can’t believe the change of expression.

I bet all my money he actually OWNED one of these huge skyscrapers or was somewhat near that point. Like the final boss of a videogame.

All that beautiful, perfect, fresh faces with those huge smiles, sometimes, I think, what do they live of? What do they live for? What do they live with?

They’re so different from me, and well, that’s not rare, but we’re almost reaching the opposite here. Somehow, I admire the courage and the ferocious fierceness they have to show all day while their soul slowly dies, completely dedicated to money and to office battles, where small ininfluent things like the brand of the shirt you wear start to be one of the most important factors of the war, one of the many weapons.

I could never do that. Like, never, really.

Life for me is no applause nor achievement. It’s not a list of goals and must-dos. If someone’s value was to be calculated by their ambitions and their “place” in society, I wouldn’t really be worth  even just a penny. Trash.

That kind of trash that notices a bush full of bugs and wants to cure it since the people who should do it don’t move a finger, and doesn’t give a shit about the fact his shoes don’t shine, and his shirt is full of cats’ hair. Trash that would choose the difficult path no matter what, if it would grant him to be and express himself, but would NEVER accept any senseless imposition, nor his life being completely stolen away, for no amount of money in the world.

When they go back home, do they love the person who is waiting for them, if there is any? Does that person know them, are they able to find the time to really know anyone, themselves included? Do they feel, do they create? Do they breathe, do they know, to they learn? Do they live outside the battle?

Informazioni su Keishiro Yukikaze

Just your regular twisted egomaniac
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