dancing. dancing.

" Today I saw a young mother brushing her five-year-old son's perfect hair. They were in the bus with me. He was all dressed up, like a little schoolboy, in a perfect white shirt, immaculately ironed trousers, shiny little shoes. Her own hair was very dirty and messy, unsuccessfully collected into a ponytail bump. But she didn't care about it. And it made me feel angry. Disgusted. Confused.

I left a beautiful dress in Sarajevo. A black dotted dress with a pink ribbon. I left it on a hanger in a small room. I realized that as I was watching the filthy mother. I never even put it on while I was there, not once. It just kept hanging. I'll be back in September and it will be there, waiting for me. 

Only, by that time, there will be no point in wearing it. Its classic beauty will be wasted on nameless passersby and neglected sidewalks. The beholder will be absent this time. The one who knows how to stare. But it's OK. And the dress will be just fine. It's an old dress. She's been through worse. 

I found this photograph on the internet. It's a shot of a little girl dancing in the Gloucester Cathedral:

The photograph made me think of the steps we take in our lives and where they end up taking us. It's extraordinary how fragile these little destinies are. A tiny, almost invisible discrepancy in the path and your destination is altered from the ground. We never know. But we keep going.
Some people walk. 
Some people run. 
And some stop for a minute to dance in a cathedral. "

It blows me away, 

the way peoples minds work.

I want to know, I want to know every thought

of every single stranger that I'll never get to meet.