A handprint amongst the many footprints

So we live in this city. Its dull as hell and excruciatingly suffocating. There are lamp posts stationed at every few blocks of land, and like clockwork, you know theyll turn themselves on every night, without a sound.


We don't complain. It's in our nature to hear what is said and see what is there. Why should we notice the silent lamp post when magazines, google, and films are screaming at us, exciting us with volumes and volumes of information. In fact there's so much to take in that we start ordering it online in bulks and storing them in our library. Eventually, we start upgrading our libraries, like a tasty, compulsive race egging us to compete against all the other growing libraries.


It's life or death.


We walk down Pitt St. The lights are staring down on us now, daring us to make an unexpected turn into the forgotten streets. But we continue straight forward, looking to the bright lights to guide us to the centre of the city.


Our lives are like a world globe; prewritten and predictable. But I see a crack on the map. A crack that we could slip through, escaping the expectations and the incessant buzzing of the city.

We face the future like it knows us when in fact the future should face us like we are something to fear.