Soul selling...

Its a rainy day...Im on my way to meet a friend, on the bus. Cold rainy weather, and my mind is broken in ten thousand pieces. A lot to think off. A lot not to think about. And the truth somewhere in the middle, stuck in my heart like a thorn that you cant take out at once, but you let it stay there until your flesh decides to start healing....Alone again, lost in my mist. 

The bus runs down the slippery road as if it wants to take us, me and everyone else in it, to  a parallel dimension, an upside down world of ghosts... Am I the ghost? I keep wondering as i see a little girl that holds a small red umbrella...smiling under the rain... her mom holds her by the hand, tells her to watch out for the rain, not to get wet...The little girl nods, and when her mommy is not looking, she moves her umbrella a bit to the side and opens her mouth to drink raindrops...How much joy is concealed in that brief moment of disobediance...

The bus turns again. The flea market starts under the bridge. A huge shop selling and bying almost everything. In lines on the ground, are the most horrible and fascinating objects, artifacts... second hand clothes, used devices of every shape and colour, old books with so many fingerprints on them  that their covers and pages have the stories of so many people-some long dead, i know- left forever on them...Souls of the dead, souls of the living, one endless buy-and-sell river that flows along with all the sorrow of this world...

I look at a man who sells flowers, all fresh, all of them a bargain, that me or you or they shouldnt miss...And the rain goes on. A gypsy woman shows her rugs and other stuff to a young girl and her friend. She shines inside her golden necklasses and bracelets, inside her primitive beauty, radiating with the power of ancient wisdom that comes from within. The young girl asks to learn her future. The gypsy smiles with a golden tooth under her red lips. She knows how fragile humans are...i look at her hands. The blessing and the curse of being an outcast. 

The bus stops at the red light. Too much traffic, too much noise. The rain falls harder now. A yellow tricycle is parked on the right side of the road. I see the most strange thing on it. An old dirty half ripped doll, a poorly sewn pile of cloth, with stripes for hair and buttons for eyes. She is looking at me, and im scared. I feel uncomfortable, trying to ignore that empty look...and wishing for the bus to start moving...And then its all gone, the gypsy, and the flowers, and the tricycle, and the doll, and the piles of dirt, and the people that swimm in this sea of human stench and tragedy bargaining for their souls, and the rain that covers everything with a fog...