A Bazaar in Tyre.

I have been in this alleyway for some time now. My arm hurts. I see the darkness beyond the far wall, but it doesn't scare me. I am tired, numb, defensively resistent. There is something hopeful about these closed, locked doors. Perhaps it is the fact that they are doors, that doors by virtue of being doors, open. Perhaps it is this foolish hope that binds me, the hope that the reality behind these doors are not portrayed by the doors themselves. I lean gingerly against one, the creaking betraying my presence mournfully, a siren into the silence. The rusted chain imposes into the small of my back and the cold metal chills my spine. Invisible creatures scurry away, senses heightened to the stranger. I slide myself downward, and sit in the dust. Then it appears. Of mixed decent, and hardly persian, it paws it's way through the dusty alley and stops, stately in the centre, a questioning glance at me. But I don't bother it for even a second. It turns and holds court in it's own silent way- this scarce alley is it's kingdom. Ears high like a blended crown, spine straight and eyes bright. It's a mongrel of a cat, I'm sure, but this is it's world. I am awed that I, a stranger, should be allowed to witness the daily confines of such a palace. It will be a timeless moment, a ticket to the finer moments in life, to a reality of harsh tragedy and fierce dignity. It invokes pity, pain, and awe all in one feeling, a blueish mix of truth and emotion. How much does a cat know? The gleam in Hayao Miyazaki's eye would tell you that they are not to be underestimated, and that is to say the least.