On Spectating Life IWritings
• Boston, MA
The skies were dim and grey around Clemente Field in the Back Bay Fens. It was a bit chilly and getting dark, but it wasn’t too late for people to stop doing people things. The atmosphere was strangely pleasant, and, approaching the field, I remove my headphones. A small group of people are playing soccer; meanwhile, a ballerina poses for her photographer, covering her bare skin with a jacket in between the flashes of bright light. A woman walks her tiny white dog (despite the signs indicating its disallowance), and others just walk, content but uncurious, and even a couple others chat amongst each other in the bandstands. As I loop to the far end of the track, a spectacular frame of the Boston skyline comes into view, the vast field contrasting against the bundle of buildings in the distance, rising from the ground as a utopia of sorts.
I walk slower, enjoying a sense of clarity and awareness. I cannot help but to appreciate the ordinary beauty of the scenes surrounding me. I am content, and yet I wonder, why am I the observer? Why am I not one of the soccer players, or the ballerina, or the photographer?
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