The art of jazz-walking

The city of lights is the perfect amphitheater.

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We are the new generation, a bridge between roadrunners and stargazers. One step signifies our will to lose control over the unknown. Time travelers, as jaguars we wander the concrete jungles.

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Walk tall. With direction. Or eyes, however, strand from our path, loosely going back and forth, just like the hidden melody the city impregnates in our hearts, like a constellation; jazz-walking, we go.

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It is all a labyrinth, though there is no entrance, exit, walls, or path. A den for insanity. Thus, our home.

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Little threads detach from our shoes with each step, weaving our lives into the city, which is no more than a big spinning wheel. Here I am, here we are. Not only do I affect all threads but the woven threads affect me and my surroundings. Possible realities are blended into the horizon as the Moon and Sun coexist in a jazzy afternoon.

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The reddish sky is my reddish hair is the red lips I gaze with my eyes, filled with red vinyl blood, pumped into my crimson-stained heart. A breeze is the lonely gasp and the laugh and joy, as the little girl is the heartbroken citizen from the suburbs. And we’re the wanderers, a wanderer I am.

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The walking pace of the wanderer is the fastest. Either way, we don’t fear where we go. We are eager to know the next face under the next tree on the next street. And we’ll rest in the interlude of dawn before the next day, hearing the next jazz song; but, hopefully, in the same big stage, lonely parade, cold, blue, tough city. Where hail makes us glue together, and rain makes us sing under a sign for a “yes”. This city managed to give birth to hope.

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Hello. Thanks for reading. If you liked it, feel free to check out this fabulous and introspective surrealist tale: