Sunday Mornings

I stroll through the streets of Stokes Croft in Bristol. Looking up, I see a Banksy mural high on the wall: a teddy bear throwing a petrol bomb at riot police. I wonder how long it has been there.
The street art captivates me, with the buildings serving as an artist's canvas—perhaps inspired by Banksy himself. Vibrant colors tell stories that resonate with the past. I picture ancient caves inhabited by our distant ancestors, their tales of beasts and hunts etched within those images, revealing the origins of art, prayer, and intentional manifestation.
As I pass a narrow street marked by people sharing their angst and identity in the night, I take out my camera. I capture a moment, not realizing that it will one day be transformed into a painting. I am simply drawn to the energy here; I’m captivated.
In that instant, I've seen you—just a fleeting connection in time.
I continue on, the smell of coffee wafting from a café like a siren’s call.
The café is filled with intriguing individuals—some lost in the virtual world of their phones while old friends chat merrily together. Jazz plays softly from an old speaker mounted on the wall. Delicious-looking cakes tempt me from behind a glass display, and the enticing aromas of food cooking waft from the kitchen. A middle-aged man wearing an apron smiles at me; his warmth is genuine. This is his dream, an outward reflection of a part of himself fulfilled. In this moment, our paths connect, our dreams overlapping: mine of Sunday mornings wandering the streets of new places, sipping coffee in atmospheric independent cafés, and listening to jazz.