The Busker

Every day without fail when the sun was still shining brightly, he would set down his bag on the promenade donned in a silvery paint with a tee shirt, waist coat, tie and jeans and a bunch of artificial yellow daisies in his hands. Then the busker would go still as the world raced around him.

The promenade would slowly start to fill up. Some people getting their daily rounds ignoring him as if he were never there. Children playing ball around him, knocking him with their toys. He held his gaze with the flowers. Suddenly someone stopped to look. “Let us take a picture of this crazy fellow.” A small crowd rally around him now. A cheerful lady walks right to him and picks up a flower from the glove of his hand but he stays silently still. Looking straight ahead.

The sun sets, the orange hues of the sky turn to a midnight twilight blue, wait he is human he does a quick shift in his pose and goes back to what he does best. Money comes by in the jar set by him. He must want to go home with it to feed a child, or pay a bill or maybe even pay for his studies so he can walk out of his life busking.

But he is not thinking that he lends his smile as people stop by trying to make him move trying to get a word out of him. This is his art, his gift for the world a little fantasy standing still amid people. The colors of twilight and the gentle breeze is soothing to his weary soul and very soon the floodlights are on now can you see the pain on his face? Is there worry there is there joy? You will never know. Just as the sky is still lit with color, he sees a girl walk by looking at him, taking a pause and a smile touches her lips, a tear in her eye and she shakes her head and walks past. He is wondering now what she saw in him was it his tacky suit or silver paint perhaps they were the flowers in his hand, flowers no one ever brought her. His heart smiles for they connected for a fraction of a second and then she was gone.

Now he is weary he comes out of character packs his humble earnings and blends into the crowd. Just another day in busking paradise.

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