Peripheral Event

There's movement here. Buses and cars and motorbikes, thundering
past in their impatient ways, each spewing out their fumes. Then there
are the people, jostling each other, pushing for space, each feeling
far more important than the next irrelevant person.

Then there's me, standing at the bus stop, feet hurting from a long
day. The sky is a bright orange halo above the buildings. Music from a
nearby record store mixes with the sounds of the engines and the
voices, turning into a bizarre mix of unrecognisable sounds. It's
probably an improvement.

Then there's him, the old man, standing a little way down the road, on
the opposite side, at the curb, walking stick precariously positioned,
completely motionless. Frozen in time, a pale blue relic of the past
inserted and left as a mere curiosity for the present.

The stick has moved, down onto the road. A moment later a foot moves
forwards. Edging forwards, each movement creeping towards the end of
his life, one minute at a time. Juddering from foot to foot, inching
his way across the road, he seems oblivious to the bus bearing down
fast upon him.

Is he aware of anything at all? Or is everything silent and still in
his world? What is he? Old, slow, unaware, unimportant, a spark of
pitied amusement for bored travellers? All movement, all senses, all
perception, all gone, the world a silent, black, enveloping bubble.
Does the man know of anything but himself? Does he know of himself?
Does he have anything worth living for?

The man is now climbing the opposite pavement, the bus having
disregarded him as nothing more but an irritation. In an hour I will
have forgotten about that man. And so I take a seat and let the bus
move me off into the present.