Reflections of the Modern World

Reflections of the Modern World

The slow methodical drip from the tap, the rustle of a newspaper, the wafting of gentle music from the radio in the corner is disturbed by the chink of a cup meeting a saucer. The sound does not simmer out but ends almost as quick as it starts. The swish of the turning pages sends a breeze outwards and extinguishes the tables candle. The patchy wallpaper nulls the senses. The dusty pictures on the wall of seaside towns and beautiful hills and valleys act as a portal to a new life. They are in fact taunting and unforgiving.

The boiler is switched on and the water begins bubbling and boiling. It is the only sound. It tears through the small space. The crescendo seems infinite. However nothing is infinite. The windows of the cafe are bleak and limiting like a prison cells. Across the street a curtain is turned slightly yet no face can be seen peering out. The boiler hisses incessantly. The curtain flaps back into its original position and moments later a loud bang echoes from the room and carries itself through the street and fades in remorse. With a click the boiler subsides and the harsh sound fizzles out.

The surrounding area is dead for a second. Void of life and its intricacies. It is not peaceful, it is not morbid. There is a glimmer of a street lamp which momentarily lights the street and provides hope after the silence. The moments of darkness are nightmarish. Fleeting images of dark acts seep into reality. Ramblings and ravings, screams and shouts. Then the light flickers and the world is restored. A puddle of blood now lies on the footpath no other signs of disturbance can be seen.

The cup of tea is now cold, the cafe desolate.