Architecture contracts around us as we walk. It dominates us psychologically, allowing us to weave our way along the walkways in its heart, projecting perfect pathways that we follow, guided by the lynchpins of churches or mosques or the great boxes of tower blocks.
Inside this walk we find the city, the land varying from one
section to the next: here lies a business-suited someone, their hair matted with
sweat as they run for the bus, late for a meeting; here a woman wanders lonely,
talking to the baby perched on her shoulders.
A train rattles the mortar as it passes over the bridge
above us, a few flakes tumble into out hair. This is the physical realisation
of the city’s presence in our minds. The reminder that as we move through the
city, the city moves through us, forming us, moulding us, in a newness of identity
that couldn’t exist outside of the steel, the glass, and the concrete.
We wander further, lost in other’s creations.
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