Thanks for dropping in.

Here I will be sharing my thoughts on all things that influence my creativity. As you may know I am a writer too, it is a hobby these days as the visual and tactile are my focus.

Here is snippet of something that I have been writing recently:

Its edges are still sharp and just one corner show damage to its handcrafted geometry but there is no mistaking that the lock has suffered. The metal plate is scratched and mechanism is no longer true.

The box stands centered between their tight silence while all around was noise.

Electrical frenzied high humming from the tracks,  a low contralto hiss of opening doors. Shuffling small steps as more people squeezed in. Packed.  A babies rattle clatters to the floor and a screech rouses the tall woman from her upright sleep, she folds to recover it from oblivious feet. Baby grabs at it and puts it back between its unformed teeth. The mother smiles a thanks and turns her eyes upwards to the carriage skies.

A man mouths the poetry stuck to the arc of the tubular wall; his backpack worn one shouldered, unsecure . Bored now, he studies shoes. Rain splashed patent peeping from damp turned up hems. Unabashed biker boots bucked tight. Concrete pounding converse, brazen red.  And brogues. Why do the cities hippies dress like trees? Organic fine cotton denim in fair trade tannin brown. Musty sage green jackets over crumpled 8am linen shirts.

The box slides to the right on the moulded plastic shelf, and then back again, and back again. Like a metronome or the ticking of a clock. Outside the flash of station tiles, Highgate, Archway, Kentish Town.