PJ Swift

Frazzled

The frazzled older man with wild busy grey hair briefly approaches S. on the street. He recognizes him profoundly. As S. hastens his step, the frazzled man ambles onward. He was not expecting this, probably ever. He has seen his younger self. S. too realizes this, so impactful has been this essentially instantaneous encounter. He spends the evening roaming the city streets, searching for his younger self. But no such person materializes. He will have to wait until he assumes the role of that frazzled man -- to gain a taste and an appreciation of youth again.

The Street

Two old friends met on the street. This was the primary reason this street was created. Sure deliveries needed to be made, and children had to go to school, and others needed to pick up some groceries, or just a cup of coffee. But all that would have happened anyway, even without this street. The street's primary, grand, cosmic purpose was for random encounters such as this one - for how else would these two have remained friends? Sure, these two old friends could have planned a meeting -- which is exactly what the proceeded to do during this encounter (and of which about 37 percent actually happened) -- but the real plan, the master plan, was to have this street -- without it much relations would not happen.

The Street, II

The street is like a stream, carving its path over centuries. It bears the accumulation of personal incidents—moments happy, poignant, or perverse—each objectively inconsequential, yet together forming the minute, indelible etchings that have shaped it. Bit by bit, the footsteps of the forgotten have forged and flavored this street, an obscure inheritance of memory passing through faded generations. But what of today’s flash tsunamis? Multitudes of tourists plow through, their impressions instant, superficial, yet often cherished. The buildings and pavement remain, but the shops and pubs, catering to quixotic gratification, have grown generic and bland. Have these rushing hordes cleansed the street of its character, or does its spirit endure still, tucked in unseen corners, untouched, but tangible somewhere unknown?