A Parisian Cafe by Ilya Repin
I never tire of sitting in cafes watching the world go by.
Listen to the humming of the coffee machines, the clinking of cups, the chatter of people.
Especially at busy times when it’s swarming with people, colourful and diverse, each person a world to themselves. A world hidden from me, and yet I’m trying to peer inside, by observing, by listening, by filling in the blanks with details and trying to extricate their stories.
This is one my favourite past times, listening to stories … but not the obvious ones, the ones you passively consume, but the ones you have to unravel, you have to pay attention to, you have to decipher.
I can’t say I’m good at it. I forget to practice. After all, I’m living in a world that seems to demand of me to permantently assert my existence by talking about myself, taking pictures about myself, vlogging about myself. To prove that I’m still here and have no intention to fade away.
Truth is, there are times I’d happily fade away. To stop making noise, and just listen. Listening is so much more interesting than talking. Sometimes I think I’ve forgotten how to.