You could be a part of anyone’s
story without knowing it.
The distinguished gentleman
sipping his americano in the corner
might be side-ways, side-eyes
glancing at the cover
of your weather-beaten Jane Eyre
and you surprisingly only care
that he knows how much this
classic has lent itself to your fragile,
feeble, fabled adolescence.
He might be placing you expertly
in the vacant role of feminine star
in the story he’s concocting in his
lonely, ingenious mind.
The submissive lady, head down,
shoulders hunched
that you collided with in the middle
of town, may have looked up
for the briefest of seconds
and noticed your kind eyes, your
upturned lips
she may have placed you
inexpertly
in the vacant role of her rescuer, her
quiet confidante
in the harsh, cold, brutal reality
within the walls of her terraced hell.
The little boy, surprisingly less snot-
nosed and more wide-eyes and
bushy-tailed than expected
that runs down your street, to-ing
and fro-ing, hurtling away from the
monster, invisible, that lurks by the
big, brown gate
may have paused at your window,
saw you settling down to the latest
instalment of whatever fantasy
franchise takes his fancy,
that his guardians refuse to indulge him.
He may have placed you
clumsily
as the mother he never had,
never could have,
a golden halo beaming around your
Madonna-like head.
Just as you notice them but do not
understand how you become
woven
clasped
attached
to their fantasies
to their realities…
That’s why the world is weird
how our stories can and will
interconnect
how we’re told to love thy
neighbour
while we, sit dumb and ignorant,
reading our Jane Eyre; walking
in the street; watching a film with
those bold, brash blinkers
blocking the light.
photography by Isabella Baxter
