Flâneuring
Julian meanders at his own relaxed pace toward some destination of his own choosing, and when he finds it—or it finds him—he carefreely moves forward without rushing. Pausing just before the end of the street, he gazes through the rubble into his own life. He recollects one memory in particular, noticing a tangled metal frame and the torn remains of a rubber wheel. He remembers his old rusty bike that he would ride to and from work and ride to the local library of limitless freedoms, where he grew quiet, flourishing thoughts. The bike, now retired in his garage, reminds him of a long-ago bike-stunt that he shouldn’t have been attempting at dusk. Having cleaned-up his bike, he had ridden it off the ramp when one of his giant tires had swung loose midair. As soon as the tire hit the wooden ramp, he knew his mistake. He would fall onto the hard concrete. Even now he feels that same cold shiver that had snaked-up his spine, his tire spinning with vigor. When the ground drew a deep breath and smacked his face, he remembered when his breaths were also deep and flew him into a slow motion film. His gaze now lands gently on a piece of a broken yellow board. Stained, cracking, paint fading, peeling, bearing the name, “The Fading Sign,” his favorite cafe. When he had first arrived in the city many years ago, he had come upon this little street and the homely cafe at the end, where he met and befriended the owner, an elderly man with a kind chuckle of pure wit and wisdom. Every morning, he would go to sip his soul-warming morning coffee, sitting at the little table in the corner of the cafe as smooth jazz played. He remembers asking for advice from the elderly man. Whether it be a decision to be made or a challenge to overcome, the elderly man would always respond, “What would you regret doing? Once you are set on a decision, do not waver, or you will feel regret. If something you regret has come to pass, do not regret, rather reflect.”
wise footsteps fade
through fond memory’s river
rippling bliss drifts
As a piece of rubble crumbles to dust, falling through his fingers, Julian is wistfully pulled back to when he had once said something he had thought unforgivable, irrevocable, that had almost lost him his closest friend. It had been a chilly winter morning, frosty snowfall softly fogging his windows. The person, he had been, was strumming the treasured acoustic guitar his father had gifted to him. He had set the guitar aside on the carpet to welcome his friend. With just an accidental step and trip in the dark right before sunrise, his friend had crushed the guitar. Frozen in shock, then flying blindly into a rage, he had slandered his friend. Then, as soft sunlight had begun to seep into the room, he realized how darkness had blinded his friend from spotting the guitar on the carpet. Remembering the elderly cafe owner’s advice, he had reflected and turned to his friend to voice his guilt and regret. Amends made, they were fast companions, both learning Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide”. The chords now play through his mind as he stops, body still, gazing up at new skyscrapers and towering construction sites. A quiet sigh releases him, one that could ring across the seas. He follows the curb to his right, his steps silent and light, leaving no trace as if he hadn’t been there at all. Perhaps to others, he had not been there. But to him, there was every strand of memory and thought in his mind, absolute certainty that he had walked that little street. Perhaps he had walked this little street many times before. Now, the building at the end of the street demolished, he turns to the present as the sun’s rays turn tenderly mellow through the cracks between the city buildings, welcoming and inviting him away from this nostalgia. Perhaps to flâneur another, this time unknown, street.
he turns the corner
the corner turns around him
vanishes without trace
