I sit gazing over my balcony at 09h20 on your average Thursday morning looking over the city having a late breakfast. In my constant tension of both loving and hating city life, I look over with fascination and curiosty as two men paint the wall of the building across my apartment block. A freshly coated bright orange wall stares back at me, painted with such perfection, with such care and attention. The chubby guy with his overalls sagging a bit too low in a mechanic fashion steps back, admires his work and applies another coat.
A well-styled black guy who looks like a creative runs by, on a mission to get some place fast. In the opposite direction saunters a guy contrasting his attire and carrying recycled garbage. Cars of various makes and classes whizz by with hands of different shades dangling out the window, greeted by the chill of an autumn morning. All of these people have their own story; their own joy, their own pain, their own quest for life. Some of them have even ceased to live in the lifeless routine of their mundane existance.
I sit in my ivory tower having the intellectual debate with myself: does life imitate art, or does art imitate life? My ephiphamy is that life is art and that there is an art to living.