At Last

Insides glowed on a dim day. A sad sky was holding back tears and barely hanging on: I couldn't find the sun.

I walked off the smoky city streets into the bookstore. Signs advertised lofts upstairs, so up I climbed.

Colorful swirls shone sprinkled onto white walls, straining to be galleries but coming up just short of the title. A plain plaque warned against touching the art.

Small shops with ornate open signs stood rightl. A young shopkeeper sat behind the desks of each studio.

I looked at the curios even though I knew I wouldn't be buying today. They ranged widely, wildly. I moved from one shop to the next conscious of the disagreeable fact that I was working my way back around the circle.

So? I enjoyed my time there. Some part of me whispered I wouldn't fufill my promise to the shopkeepers of coming back later. I ignored it because it didn't matter.

I was another plain passerby in these scintillating lives, surely, but I feared a world where no one acknowledged these great existences and this was my way of showing that.