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Urban Ubiquitous
Every day of the week I walk this stretch of road to go study, and sometimes I can't help but to think that it will be this stretch of road that will become the focus of my urban studies. The people that live on it, those ghostly faces staring out at me from their rugged porches, the pizza man throwing up his dough, the sagging eyes looking down from their apartment windows.
I ask myself, what do these people believe? I shouldn't categorize them as a whole. Who are they individually? What is their philosophy? What do they dream about at night, or can they even dream because of the horn of the train every half hour?
Have you ever wept for the world?
On my return from the work place, I heard from the tunnel the strumming of strings, a simple song, plucked by a simple man. He was leaning against the brick wall, hands releasing the spare silver in their pockets before they step onto the train and go home. Normally, wind instruments can be heard in the tunnel, like a saxophone or a clarinet, but yesterday was new. There was a face shining like the sun, music out of the mayhem, no longer a mundane wait, but a mountain moving.
The train station has become the kingdom of heaven for my mind and my heart, maybe even the back porch with a diverse array of garments and socks on a clothesline blowing in the wind. It is a temple. Like the ruined temple the people of Judah refused to build in the years of 700-500 B.C., but with the voice and determination of a prophet, they chose to rebuild it, even greater than Solomon's. Somehow it is like this when I look out of my eyes.
Do you see the world, your world, in such a way?
I ask myself, what do these people believe? I shouldn't categorize them as a whole. Who are they individually? What is their philosophy? What do they dream about at night, or can they even dream because of the horn of the train every half hour?
Have you ever wept for the world?
On my return from the work place, I heard from the tunnel the strumming of strings, a simple song, plucked by a simple man. He was leaning against the brick wall, hands releasing the spare silver in their pockets before they step onto the train and go home. Normally, wind instruments can be heard in the tunnel, like a saxophone or a clarinet, but yesterday was new. There was a face shining like the sun, music out of the mayhem, no longer a mundane wait, but a mountain moving.
The train station has become the kingdom of heaven for my mind and my heart, maybe even the back porch with a diverse array of garments and socks on a clothesline blowing in the wind. It is a temple. Like the ruined temple the people of Judah refused to build in the years of 700-500 B.C., but with the voice and determination of a prophet, they chose to rebuild it, even greater than Solomon's. Somehow it is like this when I look out of my eyes.
Do you see the world, your world, in such a way?
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Stridefull |
Latest page update: made by Stridefull
, Jul 4 2007, 1:36 PM EDT
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