Kings Cross is a busy part of town. The clamour can be deafening and it hums with the vibrancy of movement. Everyone is going somewhere so it seems. We live here and I like it in parts.
Today is not a day I like being here. Today I sit on the lower deck just behind the stairs leading to the top deck. The engines are slamming and the bus is warmer then one would wish. As the bus begins to lurch across the grid-locked traffic into the stop I can hear the thudding of heavy feet and a shrill sing-song voice. She appears. I watch her aware of the presence she is. We all shift in our seats, eyes flicking to anywhere but her. Her hair is a short tangle of black curls and her clothes are mismatched, garish, dirty and ill fitting. I watch her as she chatters to Gods only she sees and answers the daemons that only she hears. I am moved by her and part of me wants to reach for her, she glances round. I look quickly and obviously away as she turns towards me, thinking hard 'don't come near my baby.' Who sits on my lap pointing out buses and taxis and wheels and people. 'Don't come near my baby.' I watch as she hangs unsteadily to the pole as the bus pulls in and hear her laugh as she thanks the driver. There is little joy in that laugh, it's a brittle thing. I see people move away from her outside and then the bus pulls out and she is lost to the noise and the throng. Just another dark shape in this city.
As I talk with my boy sharing his glee and wonderment at the world as it emerges from its cocoon before him I think about my compassion. I always thought compassion should be free. Times past I would of offered a smile. My compassion, it seems, no longer comes without conditions.
http://www.mind.org.uk/
No comments:
Post a Comment