Blinding Vision

See that man in front of us? The one with the long, purple coat and shiny hat. That one, there, moving like a pinball through the crowd. That’s him, he has it, follow him! We launch after him like silver, metal balls jolting through the morning mob. He shoots through the underground walkway. There he is, next to the the newsagency, the bakery, the shoe-shiner, there! We bolt past a lady in red who yells as her coffee splashes but the sound fades into blur as we zip through the daily shuffle. We pick small gaps - pin-striped suits, blue shirts, brown shoes, red ties - he’s getting away. His coat flares out as he jumps over the turnstile and we follow him, leaping over the gateway. By the time the guards react to our offence we are gliding down the stairs towards the platform. We slip through the congestion and close in. We see the sheen of his hat reflecting the crowd like a crazy carnival-mirror. A round woman with a triangular hand-bag pops out in front us and we split, darting to either side. He springs off the platform and we chase after him. All of his purple steadily greys as he dissappears into the railway tunnel. We race into the darkness and into the heavy, grey mist, which breathes like a neglected basement. Wooden sleepers catch our shoes as we run between the tracks, further into the murk. As we round the bend, the tunnel roars and we see his coat flapping, sailing and falling to the ground. He scales the wall and pushes up through a man-hole in the ceiling. A circle of light shoots down around him we see the finish on all his garments, his pants, his shoes, his hat, his gloves, even his belt, all purple, lustrous and gleaming. He pops up into the bright light. The walls in the tunnel are shuddering and screeching and we clamber up the steel wrungs in chase. We reach the top, look out and see him shrinking towards the horizon. There is a strong pull and our instincts resist but we gradually feel ourselves being propelled away from the ground. Our feet kick air, hoping to feel the ground but we are off. The wind’s whistle dries our eyes and cools our cheeks as we accelerate towards the horizon in pursuit. We stretch out to maintian our streamline and see the world below us shrinking and fading. We soar across then up then down then out and it gradually feels like we could be gaining on him. He arcs, stops and turns to face us. We almost glimpse the colour of his eyes. His clothing starts to expand and shrouds his face. The threads grow like vines and soon he is surrounded by puffs of purple. The cloth starts to take shape, like it is filling with air, and unravels into a ball with his shining hat sticking out like a plug. The hovering purple mass stretches to capacity. We float over and lift his hat, hoping to find what we are looking for but, as we peer in, we are popped out of the story. We could have fallen from the sky but we are just 'here'. He’s gone. Maybe we shouldn’t have followed him, apologies. I'll be leaving now.