Walking on a stop or two instead of standing, waiting for that bus, perhaps helped remove expletives from the run of these few preceding words. Sitting on the wall here on Varosmajor utca, 2 stops off Széll Kálmán tér, I’m in the early noon sunlight, somewhat protected by a thin, cotton ball film of cloud, and by the cooling which I’d expect of September.
However hot it is today, it seems to me perfection.
A fly ventures to land on my bag, I let it.
The constant rumble of traffic; music!
The notion of an approaching bus still leaves me hurried but my error allows me this one sentence more…at least.
A gentle breeze cools off my peripheries, though it’s now that I’d love a kilt, let some real aeration in.
A grandmother and grandchild spend this time conversing. They weren’t at that first stop.
People walk by, cycle past, move with the constant pulse of city life.
Sometimes, just barely, a moment like this enthralls, not the long protracted pen-stroke of a cafe pause, but the honest meanderings of a pensive, if meditative mind.
The bus arrives to break the last thought and as it rattles and squeaks along to its next port of call, doors slamming and banging, bells buzzing and fussing each time, I’m reminded of how easily it is to write when the object is not writing itself, but the mere restful state of observing.
