August 2, 2023
Rain mottled the broad face of the Shard, London's tallest skyscraper. High above the city, defying gravity and weather alike, Jasper manoeuvred his window cleaning platform with the ease of a seasoned mountaineer. In one hand, he held his squeegee, wiping away at the glass in broad, practised strokes. In the other, a flask of tea, from which he sipped intermittently.
Down below, London pulsated with life. Taxi cabs zipped by like neon insects, and businessmen scurried about like ants at a disastrous picnic. The ceaseless roar of life echoed upward. Past a point, though, it became quiet. London's clamour fades into a hum which Jasper had long since learned to tune out.
Cleaning windows was an intimate job. He’d been at it for so long, he'd started to think of the windows as people, each one with its quirks and pet peeves. The ones on the north side screeched if you didn’t squeegee at the right angle. While the east-side windows clung onto grime with unexpected tenacity.
Despite its idiosyncrasies, Jasper's job was nothing if not repetitive. Each day was an exercise in routine, an endless cycle of suds, squeezes, and descents. It paid the bills but Jasper longed for more.
"It's not all bad," Jasper mused aloud, peering through the freshly cleaned glass at the office workers within. "At least I'm not stuck in a stuffy office, hunched over a keyboard all day."
The reflection in the glass stared back at him, rain-washed and somewhat gloomy. It was the face of a man clinging to the edge of his thirties, skin weathered by the elements, eyes the colour of London fog, and with a mop of perpetual bedhead.
"Yes," the reflection seemed to say, "You're not just a nobody. You're a nobody with a view."
Jasper sighed, sipped his cold tea, and moved onto the next window. As his shift neared its end, the sun began its descent. He loved to bathe in the golden hours; when the view transformed into a fractal of amber skyscrapers simmering below a cotton-candy sky. It was beautiful, and Jasper savoured every fleeting second, until the sun had finally set.
While he was preparing his descent back down to civilization, something peculiar caught his eye. One panel stood out amongst the dark, dense blue of the rest, as it was still ablaze with the ethereal hues of the golden hour.
Curious, Jasper navigated his platform over to the anomaly, and peered at it closely. It was as though looking into a different world. Gold and pink hues washed over the window, an echo of the evening's earlier beauty. Even more peculiar was the figure reflected in it: a woman from the office within, her face softly illuminated by the glow of a computer screen. What held Jasper's gaze, though, was not the woman herself, but the aura that surrounded her.
It was an otherworldly glow, fluctuating and pulsating, changing slowly between different colours. Jasper blinked and rubbed his eyes, half expecting the ethereal radiance to disappear. But it persisted, captivating in its mystery. The woman moved, her aura shifting and dancing like firelight on a wall, and Jasper was ensnared by the mesmerising spectacle.
He tilted his head, squinting to see if the other windows held the same power, but they were still just glass and grime. Drawing his attention back to the woman's aura, he allowed himself to slip into the trance. Words began to fill his mind as though he was reading the shifting radiance of light.
A serenade,
Words unsaid, plans delayed,
Password: 'freedom123', my silent plea,
Flicker of blacklight, my yearning to break free,
Dentist appointment next week, a brewing abyss,
Sipping oceans from my coffee cup, searching for bliss,
Dog's paw in my hand, eyes-closed, solace, delight,
Late-night fears, phantom strings, hugged tight,
Lost earring, a keepsake, sunlit reminisce,
Anxiety stacks, unopened mail, a kiss,
Dinner for one, my story is fine,
Yet guilt etched in every line,
I can't keep doing this.
He wrote down the words that he read, and soon thereafter, the glimpse into this secret world had vanished.
Later that night, he stared at the words he had written with a strange sense of accomplishment. He had never been one to wax poetic. School essays were a torment, love letters a catastrophe. But this... this felt different. It was not his voice, not his life, but somehow, he had brought it into the world. On a whim, he pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, and began typing. He placed the words on a pink flowery background. And then posted it onto his near-dead page.
Jasper awoke and immediately looked at his phone's notifications as he always does. To his utter disbelief, his post from the night before had gone viral. Likes and comments were still pouring in! Many said that they had deeply connected with his poem and Jasper swelled with pride. He was having a positive effect on so many people!
Buzzing with a renewed energy, Jasper's work day blurred by. Soon the sun was setting and he was out on his platform. Golden hour began, and the phenomenon of the night prior made a reappearance. A different glass panel of the building was glowing, and Jasper eagerly went to peer inside.
There was a man, crumpled over a desk, sobbing his heart out. His aura was a deep blue. Jasper read it aloud to himself.
Suits and ties,
Deals, denial and lies,
Smiles are thin, eyes tell no tale,
The only thing I need is not for sale,
My father's hopes, my legacy's weight,
The charade of seeming strictly straight,
Tie too tight, can't catch my breath,
Working myself to death,
I have it all on the line,
Yet my life isn't mine
Jasper transcribed the poem into his phone and then opened instagram. This time he picked a nice blue background. Likes and comments began flooding in. Jasper had never received so much attention and it felt incredible that people loved his creations so much.
He, of course, wondered about the true nature of the auras, but his thoughts were mostly concerned with how to best capitalise on this miracle. He rebranded his Instagram page, calling it "Reflections", and designed a logo; a pair of scissors slicing through glass, awash in hues of cotton-candy coloured light. He fell into a routine, posting consistently every working day, and he released hit after hit. He peered into the essence of all sorts of every-day folks, and shared their stories with the world. Before long he was doing the podcast circuit and he even shared a blunt with Joe Rogan. Jasper's brand "Reflections" became very popular and Jasper himself became a midtier influencer.
The soul poems, as he had coined them, came in all sorts of flavours. They offered his followers perspectives from people both alike and very different. Some were angry, some happy, but many were sad. It seemed as though everyone was struggling under the weight of modernity.
Sometimes, Jasper wondered if his actions were evil. Was he exposing a stranger's innermost self? And taking credit for the work that the universe was giving him? Did he earn his success? But Jasper managed to rationalise these away. Begon, pesky moral ambiguity! He was just sharing a gift with the world. And besides, this was all he had.
Many golden hours later, Jasper sits and waits for the pink window to open. He approaches it, peers inside, and a shiver runs down his spine. There is a window cleaner's platform on the other side of the reflection. Upon it, a figure shrouded in shadow was cleaning the reverse side of the glass. As his hand moves, the pink ceases to glow and the glass turns back to normal. The shadow was closing the connection.
"Oh, hello," the shadow says. "Don't worry about this stuff, dude. Your sector of spacetime has been glitching a little." The shadow man gestured at the glass between them. "And I get paid seven bucks an hour to stitch it back up. Your side is not meant to be able to see this, but it happens sometimes, I guess." The shadow was almost finished cleaning their side of the window, the portal between them was now only a pin point.
Jasper blinked, unable to process what he was being told. As the rift of spacetime disappeared for the final time, Jasper stared into his own reflection. Within his aura, he read:
A face of duplicity,
High above a beautiful city,
I'm a plagiarising scribe of light,
In reflections and words, found my might,
Bought recognition, but the tales were sold,
In shadows, their story stole, their name untold,
The feast at the table was never for me,
Stolen secrets, distributed digitally,
From borrowed glory, I emerge,
So this shall be my final verse.
The evening descended upon the city. Jasper posts a final poem. Then, he moved on.
Rain mottled the broad face of the Shard, London's tallest skyscraper. High above the city, defying gravity and weather alike, Jasper manoeuvred his window cleaning platform with the ease of a seasoned mountaineer. In one hand, he held his squeegee, wiping away at the glass in broad, practised strokes. In the other, a flask of tea, from which he sipped intermittently.
Down below, London pulsated with life. Taxi cabs zipped by like neon insects, and businessmen scurried about like ants at a disastrous picnic. The ceaseless roar of life echoed upward. Past a point, though, it became quiet. London's clamour fades into a hum which Jasper had long since learned to tune out.
Cleaning windows was an intimate job. He’d been at it for so long, he'd started to think of the windows as people, each one with its quirks and pet peeves. The ones on the north side screeched if you didn’t squeegee at the right angle. While the east-side windows clung onto grime with unexpected tenacity.
Despite its idiosyncrasies, Jasper's job was nothing if not repetitive. Each day was an exercise in routine, an endless cycle of suds, squeezes, and descents. It paid the bills but Jasper longed for more.
"It's not all bad," Jasper mused aloud, peering through the freshly cleaned glass at the office workers within. "At least I'm not stuck in a stuffy office, hunched over a keyboard all day."
The reflection in the glass stared back at him, rain-washed and somewhat gloomy. It was the face of a man clinging to the edge of his thirties, skin weathered by the elements, eyes the colour of London fog, and with a mop of perpetual bedhead.
"Yes," the reflection seemed to say, "You're not just a nobody. You're a nobody with a view."
Jasper sighed, sipped his cold tea, and moved onto the next window. As his shift neared its end, the sun began its descent. He loved to bathe in the golden hours; when the view transformed into a fractal of amber skyscrapers simmering below a cotton-candy sky. It was beautiful, and Jasper savoured every fleeting second, until the sun had finally set.
While he was preparing his descent back down to civilization, something peculiar caught his eye. One panel stood out amongst the dark, dense blue of the rest, as it was still ablaze with the ethereal hues of the golden hour.
Curious, Jasper navigated his platform over to the anomaly, and peered at it closely. It was as though looking into a different world. Gold and pink hues washed over the window, an echo of the evening's earlier beauty. Even more peculiar was the figure reflected in it: a woman from the office within, her face softly illuminated by the glow of a computer screen. What held Jasper's gaze, though, was not the woman herself, but the aura that surrounded her.
It was an otherworldly glow, fluctuating and pulsating, changing slowly between different colours. Jasper blinked and rubbed his eyes, half expecting the ethereal radiance to disappear. But it persisted, captivating in its mystery. The woman moved, her aura shifting and dancing like firelight on a wall, and Jasper was ensnared by the mesmerising spectacle.
He tilted his head, squinting to see if the other windows held the same power, but they were still just glass and grime. Drawing his attention back to the woman's aura, he allowed himself to slip into the trance. Words began to fill his mind as though he was reading the shifting radiance of light.
A serenade,
Words unsaid, plans delayed,
Password: 'freedom123', my silent plea,
Flicker of blacklight, my yearning to break free,
Dentist appointment next week, a brewing abyss,
Sipping oceans from my coffee cup, searching for bliss,
Dog's paw in my hand, eyes-closed, solace, delight,
Late-night fears, phantom strings, hugged tight,
Lost earring, a keepsake, sunlit reminisce,
Anxiety stacks, unopened mail, a kiss,
Dinner for one, my story is fine,
Yet guilt etched in every line,
I can't keep doing this.
He wrote down the words that he read, and soon thereafter, the glimpse into this secret world had vanished.
Later that night, he stared at the words he had written with a strange sense of accomplishment. He had never been one to wax poetic. School essays were a torment, love letters a catastrophe. But this... this felt different. It was not his voice, not his life, but somehow, he had brought it into the world. On a whim, he pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, and began typing. He placed the words on a pink flowery background. And then posted it onto his near-dead page.
Jasper awoke and immediately looked at his phone's notifications as he always does. To his utter disbelief, his post from the night before had gone viral. Likes and comments were still pouring in! Many said that they had deeply connected with his poem and Jasper swelled with pride. He was having a positive effect on so many people!
Buzzing with a renewed energy, Jasper's work day blurred by. Soon the sun was setting and he was out on his platform. Golden hour began, and the phenomenon of the night prior made a reappearance. A different glass panel of the building was glowing, and Jasper eagerly went to peer inside.
There was a man, crumpled over a desk, sobbing his heart out. His aura was a deep blue. Jasper read it aloud to himself.
Suits and ties,
Deals, denial and lies,
Smiles are thin, eyes tell no tale,
The only thing I need is not for sale,
My father's hopes, my legacy's weight,
The charade of seeming strictly straight,
Tie too tight, can't catch my breath,
Working myself to death,
I have it all on the line,
Yet my life isn't mine
Jasper transcribed the poem into his phone and then opened instagram. This time he picked a nice blue background. Likes and comments began flooding in. Jasper had never received so much attention and it felt incredible that people loved his creations so much.
He, of course, wondered about the true nature of the auras, but his thoughts were mostly concerned with how to best capitalise on this miracle. He rebranded his Instagram page, calling it "Reflections", and designed a logo; a pair of scissors slicing through glass, awash in hues of cotton-candy coloured light. He fell into a routine, posting consistently every working day, and he released hit after hit. He peered into the essence of all sorts of every-day folks, and shared their stories with the world. Before long he was doing the podcast circuit and he even shared a blunt with Joe Rogan. Jasper's brand "Reflections" became very popular and Jasper himself became a midtier influencer.
The soul poems, as he had coined them, came in all sorts of flavours. They offered his followers perspectives from people both alike and very different. Some were angry, some happy, but many were sad. It seemed as though everyone was struggling under the weight of modernity.
Sometimes, Jasper wondered if his actions were evil. Was he exposing a stranger's innermost self? And taking credit for the work that the universe was giving him? Did he earn his success? But Jasper managed to rationalise these away. Begon, pesky moral ambiguity! He was just sharing a gift with the world. And besides, this was all he had.
Many golden hours later, Jasper sits and waits for the pink window to open. He approaches it, peers inside, and a shiver runs down his spine. There is a window cleaner's platform on the other side of the reflection. Upon it, a figure shrouded in shadow was cleaning the reverse side of the glass. As his hand moves, the pink ceases to glow and the glass turns back to normal. The shadow was closing the connection.
"Oh, hello," the shadow says. "Don't worry about this stuff, dude. Your sector of spacetime has been glitching a little." The shadow man gestured at the glass between them. "And I get paid seven bucks an hour to stitch it back up. Your side is not meant to be able to see this, but it happens sometimes, I guess." The shadow was almost finished cleaning their side of the window, the portal between them was now only a pin point.
Jasper blinked, unable to process what he was being told. As the rift of spacetime disappeared for the final time, Jasper stared into his own reflection. Within his aura, he read:
A face of duplicity,
High above a beautiful city,
I'm a plagiarising scribe of light,
In reflections and words, found my might,
Bought recognition, but the tales were sold,
In shadows, their story stole, their name untold,
The feast at the table was never for me,
Stolen secrets, distributed digitally,
From borrowed glory, I emerge,
So this shall be my final verse.
The evening descended upon the city. Jasper posts a final poem. Then, he moved on.
Rain mottled the broad face of the Shard, London's tallest skyscraper. High above the city, defying gravity and weather alike, Jasper manoeuvred his window cleaning platform with the ease of a seasoned mountaineer. In one hand, he held his squeegee, wiping away at the glass in broad, practised strokes. In the other, a flask of tea, from which he sipped intermittently.
Down below, London pulsated with life. Taxi cabs zipped by like neon insects, and businessmen scurried about like ants at a disastrous picnic. The ceaseless roar of life echoed upward. Past a point, though, it became quiet. London's clamour fades into a hum which Jasper had long since learned to tune out.
Cleaning windows was an intimate job. He’d been at it for so long, he'd started to think of the windows as people, each one with its quirks and pet peeves. The ones on the north side screeched if you didn’t squeegee at the right angle. While the east-side windows clung onto grime with unexpected tenacity.
Despite its idiosyncrasies, Jasper's job was nothing if not repetitive. Each day was an exercise in routine, an endless cycle of suds, squeezes, and descents. It paid the bills but Jasper longed for more.
"It's not all bad," Jasper mused aloud, peering through the freshly cleaned glass at the office workers within. "At least I'm not stuck in a stuffy office, hunched over a keyboard all day."
The reflection in the glass stared back at him, rain-washed and somewhat gloomy. It was the face of a man clinging to the edge of his thirties, skin weathered by the elements, eyes the colour of London fog, and with a mop of perpetual bedhead.
"Yes," the reflection seemed to say, "You're not just a nobody. You're a nobody with a view."
Jasper sighed, sipped his cold tea, and moved onto the next window. As his shift neared its end, the sun began its descent. He loved to bathe in the golden hours; when the view transformed into a fractal of amber skyscrapers simmering below a cotton-candy sky. It was beautiful, and Jasper savoured every fleeting second, until the sun had finally set.
While he was preparing his descent back down to civilization, something peculiar caught his eye. One panel stood out amongst the dark, dense blue of the rest, as it was still ablaze with the ethereal hues of the golden hour.
Curious, Jasper navigated his platform over to the anomaly, and peered at it closely. It was as though looking into a different world. Gold and pink hues washed over the window, an echo of the evening's earlier beauty. Even more peculiar was the figure reflected in it: a woman from the office within, her face softly illuminated by the glow of a computer screen. What held Jasper's gaze, though, was not the woman herself, but the aura that surrounded her.
It was an otherworldly glow, fluctuating and pulsating, changing slowly between different colours. Jasper blinked and rubbed his eyes, half expecting the ethereal radiance to disappear. But it persisted, captivating in its mystery. The woman moved, her aura shifting and dancing like firelight on a wall, and Jasper was ensnared by the mesmerising spectacle.
He tilted his head, squinting to see if the other windows held the same power, but they were still just glass and grime. Drawing his attention back to the woman's aura, he allowed himself to slip into the trance. Words began to fill his mind as though he was reading the shifting radiance of light.
A serenade,
Words unsaid, plans delayed,
Password: 'freedom123', my silent plea,
Flicker of blacklight, my yearning to break free,
Dentist appointment next week, a brewing abyss,
Sipping oceans from my coffee cup, searching for bliss,
Dog's paw in my hand, eyes-closed, solace, delight,
Late-night fears, phantom strings, hugged tight,
Lost earring, a keepsake, sunlit reminisce,
Anxiety stacks, unopened mail, a kiss,
Dinner for one, my story is fine,
Yet guilt etched in every line,
I can't keep doing this.
He wrote down the words that he read, and soon thereafter, the glimpse into this secret world had vanished.
Later that night, he stared at the words he had written with a strange sense of accomplishment. He had never been one to wax poetic. School essays were a torment, love letters a catastrophe. But this... this felt different. It was not his voice, not his life, but somehow, he had brought it into the world. On a whim, he pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, and began typing. He placed the words on a pink flowery background. And then posted it onto his near-dead page.
Jasper awoke and immediately looked at his phone's notifications as he always does. To his utter disbelief, his post from the night before had gone viral. Likes and comments were still pouring in! Many said that they had deeply connected with his poem and Jasper swelled with pride. He was having a positive effect on so many people!
Buzzing with a renewed energy, Jasper's work day blurred by. Soon the sun was setting and he was out on his platform. Golden hour began, and the phenomenon of the night prior made a reappearance. A different glass panel of the building was glowing, and Jasper eagerly went to peer inside.
There was a man, crumpled over a desk, sobbing his heart out. His aura was a deep blue. Jasper read it aloud to himself.
Suits and ties,
Deals, denial and lies,
Smiles are thin, eyes tell no tale,
The only thing I need is not for sale,
My father's hopes, my legacy's weight,
The charade of seeming strictly straight,
Tie too tight, can't catch my breath,
Working myself to death,
I have it all on the line,
Yet my life isn't mine
Jasper transcribed the poem into his phone and then opened instagram. This time he picked a nice blue background. Likes and comments began flooding in. Jasper had never received so much attention and it felt incredible that people loved his creations so much.
He, of course, wondered about the true nature of the auras, but his thoughts were mostly concerned with how to best capitalise on this miracle. He rebranded his Instagram page, calling it "Reflections", and designed a logo; a pair of scissors slicing through glass, awash in hues of cotton-candy coloured light. He fell into a routine, posting consistently every working day, and he released hit after hit. He peered into the essence of all sorts of every-day folks, and shared their stories with the world. Before long he was doing the podcast circuit and he even shared a blunt with Joe Rogan. Jasper's brand "Reflections" became very popular and Jasper himself became a midtier influencer.
The soul poems, as he had coined them, came in all sorts of flavours. They offered his followers perspectives from people both alike and very different. Some were angry, some happy, but many were sad. It seemed as though everyone was struggling under the weight of modernity.
Sometimes, Jasper wondered if his actions were evil. Was he exposing a stranger's innermost self? And taking credit for the work that the universe was giving him? Did he earn his success? But Jasper managed to rationalise these away. Begon, pesky moral ambiguity! He was just sharing a gift with the world. And besides, this was all he had.
Many golden hours later, Jasper sits and waits for the pink window to open. He approaches it, peers inside, and a shiver runs down his spine. There is a window cleaner's platform on the other side of the reflection. Upon it, a figure shrouded in shadow was cleaning the reverse side of the glass. As his hand moves, the pink ceases to glow and the glass turns back to normal. The shadow was closing the connection.
"Oh, hello," the shadow says. "Don't worry about this stuff, dude. Your sector of spacetime has been glitching a little." The shadow man gestured at the glass between them. "And I get paid seven bucks an hour to stitch it back up. Your side is not meant to be able to see this, but it happens sometimes, I guess." The shadow was almost finished cleaning their side of the window, the portal between them was now only a pin point.
Jasper blinked, unable to process what he was being told. As the rift of spacetime disappeared for the final time, Jasper stared into his own reflection. Within his aura, he read:
A face of duplicity,
High above a beautiful city,
I'm a plagiarising scribe of light,
In reflections and words, found my might,
Bought recognition, but the tales were sold,
In shadows, their story stole, their name untold,
The feast at the table was never for me,
Stolen secrets, distributed digitally,
From borrowed glory, I emerge,
So this shall be my final verse.
The evening descended upon the city. Jasper posts a final poem. Then, he moved on.
Rain mottled the broad face of the Shard, London's tallest skyscraper. High above the city, defying gravity and weather alike, Jasper manoeuvred his window cleaning platform with the ease of a seasoned mountaineer. In one hand, he held his squeegee, wiping away at the glass in broad, practised strokes. In the other, a flask of tea, from which he sipped intermittently.
Down below, London pulsated with life. Taxi cabs zipped by like neon insects, and businessmen scurried about like ants at a disastrous picnic. The ceaseless roar of life echoed upward. Past a point, though, it became quiet. London's clamour fades into a hum which Jasper had long since learned to tune out.
Cleaning windows was an intimate job. He’d been at it for so long, he'd started to think of the windows as people, each one with its quirks and pet peeves. The ones on the north side screeched if you didn’t squeegee at the right angle. While the east-side windows clung onto grime with unexpected tenacity.
Despite its idiosyncrasies, Jasper's job was nothing if not repetitive. Each day was an exercise in routine, an endless cycle of suds, squeezes, and descents. It paid the bills but Jasper longed for more.
"It's not all bad," Jasper mused aloud, peering through the freshly cleaned glass at the office workers within. "At least I'm not stuck in a stuffy office, hunched over a keyboard all day."
The reflection in the glass stared back at him, rain-washed and somewhat gloomy. It was the face of a man clinging to the edge of his thirties, skin weathered by the elements, eyes the colour of London fog, and with a mop of perpetual bedhead.
"Yes," the reflection seemed to say, "You're not just a nobody. You're a nobody with a view."
Jasper sighed, sipped his cold tea, and moved onto the next window. As his shift neared its end, the sun began its descent. He loved to bathe in the golden hours; when the view transformed into a fractal of amber skyscrapers simmering below a cotton-candy sky. It was beautiful, and Jasper savoured every fleeting second, until the sun had finally set.
While he was preparing his descent back down to civilization, something peculiar caught his eye. One panel stood out amongst the dark, dense blue of the rest, as it was still ablaze with the ethereal hues of the golden hour.
Curious, Jasper navigated his platform over to the anomaly, and peered at it closely. It was as though looking into a different world. Gold and pink hues washed over the window, an echo of the evening's earlier beauty. Even more peculiar was the figure reflected in it: a woman from the office within, her face softly illuminated by the glow of a computer screen. What held Jasper's gaze, though, was not the woman herself, but the aura that surrounded her.
It was an otherworldly glow, fluctuating and pulsating, changing slowly between different colours. Jasper blinked and rubbed his eyes, half expecting the ethereal radiance to disappear. But it persisted, captivating in its mystery. The woman moved, her aura shifting and dancing like firelight on a wall, and Jasper was ensnared by the mesmerising spectacle.
He tilted his head, squinting to see if the other windows held the same power, but they were still just glass and grime. Drawing his attention back to the woman's aura, he allowed himself to slip into the trance. Words began to fill his mind as though he was reading the shifting radiance of light.
A serenade,
Words unsaid, plans delayed,
Password: 'freedom123', my silent plea,
Flicker of blacklight, my yearning to break free,
Dentist appointment next week, a brewing abyss,
Sipping oceans from my coffee cup, searching for bliss,
Dog's paw in my hand, eyes-closed, solace, delight,
Late-night fears, phantom strings, hugged tight,
Lost earring, a keepsake, sunlit reminisce,
Anxiety stacks, unopened mail, a kiss,
Dinner for one, my story is fine,
Yet guilt etched in every line,
I can't keep doing this.
He wrote down the words that he read, and soon thereafter, the glimpse into this secret world had vanished.
Later that night, he stared at the words he had written with a strange sense of accomplishment. He had never been one to wax poetic. School essays were a torment, love letters a catastrophe. But this... this felt different. It was not his voice, not his life, but somehow, he had brought it into the world. On a whim, he pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, and began typing. He placed the words on a pink flowery background. And then posted it onto his near-dead page.
Jasper awoke and immediately looked at his phone's notifications as he always does. To his utter disbelief, his post from the night before had gone viral. Likes and comments were still pouring in! Many said that they had deeply connected with his poem and Jasper swelled with pride. He was having a positive effect on so many people!
Buzzing with a renewed energy, Jasper's work day blurred by. Soon the sun was setting and he was out on his platform. Golden hour began, and the phenomenon of the night prior made a reappearance. A different glass panel of the building was glowing, and Jasper eagerly went to peer inside.
There was a man, crumpled over a desk, sobbing his heart out. His aura was a deep blue. Jasper read it aloud to himself.
Suits and ties,
Deals, denial and lies,
Smiles are thin, eyes tell no tale,
The only thing I need is not for sale,
My father's hopes, my legacy's weight,
The charade of seeming strictly straight,
Tie too tight, can't catch my breath,
Working myself to death,
I have it all on the line,
Yet my life isn't mine
Jasper transcribed the poem into his phone and then opened instagram. This time he picked a nice blue background. Likes and comments began flooding in. Jasper had never received so much attention and it felt incredible that people loved his creations so much.
He, of course, wondered about the true nature of the auras, but his thoughts were mostly concerned with how to best capitalise on this miracle. He rebranded his Instagram page, calling it "Reflections", and designed a logo; a pair of scissors slicing through glass, awash in hues of cotton-candy coloured light. He fell into a routine, posting consistently every working day, and he released hit after hit. He peered into the essence of all sorts of every-day folks, and shared their stories with the world. Before long he was doing the podcast circuit and he even shared a blunt with Joe Rogan. Jasper's brand "Reflections" became very popular and Jasper himself became a midtier influencer.
The soul poems, as he had coined them, came in all sorts of flavours. They offered his followers perspectives from people both alike and very different. Some were angry, some happy, but many were sad. It seemed as though everyone was struggling under the weight of modernity.
Sometimes, Jasper wondered if his actions were evil. Was he exposing a stranger's innermost self? And taking credit for the work that the universe was giving him? Did he earn his success? But Jasper managed to rationalise these away. Begon, pesky moral ambiguity! He was just sharing a gift with the world. And besides, this was all he had.
Many golden hours later, Jasper sits and waits for the pink window to open. He approaches it, peers inside, and a shiver runs down his spine. There is a window cleaner's platform on the other side of the reflection. Upon it, a figure shrouded in shadow was cleaning the reverse side of the glass. As his hand moves, the pink ceases to glow and the glass turns back to normal. The shadow was closing the connection.
"Oh, hello," the shadow says. "Don't worry about this stuff, dude. Your sector of spacetime has been glitching a little." The shadow man gestured at the glass between them. "And I get paid seven bucks an hour to stitch it back up. Your side is not meant to be able to see this, but it happens sometimes, I guess." The shadow was almost finished cleaning their side of the window, the portal between them was now only a pin point.
Jasper blinked, unable to process what he was being told. As the rift of spacetime disappeared for the final time, Jasper stared into his own reflection. Within his aura, he read:
A face of duplicity,
High above a beautiful city,
I'm a plagiarising scribe of light,
In reflections and words, found my might,
Bought recognition, but the tales were sold,
In shadows, their story stole, their name untold,
The feast at the table was never for me,
Stolen secrets, distributed digitally,
From borrowed glory, I emerge,
So this shall be my final verse.
The evening descended upon the city. Jasper posts a final poem. Then, he moved on.
Rain mottled the broad face of the Shard, London's tallest skyscraper. High above the city, defying gravity and weather alike, Jasper manoeuvred his window cleaning platform with the ease of a seasoned mountaineer. In one hand, he held his squeegee, wiping away at the glass in broad, practised strokes. In the other, a flask of tea, from which he sipped intermittently.
Down below, London pulsated with life. Taxi cabs zipped by like neon insects, and businessmen scurried about like ants at a disastrous picnic. The ceaseless roar of life echoed upward. Past a point, though, it became quiet. London's clamour fades into a hum which Jasper had long since learned to tune out.
Cleaning windows was an intimate job. He’d been at it for so long, he'd started to think of the windows as people, each one with its quirks and pet peeves. The ones on the north side screeched if you didn’t squeegee at the right angle. While the east-side windows clung onto grime with unexpected tenacity.
Despite its idiosyncrasies, Jasper's job was nothing if not repetitive. Each day was an exercise in routine, an endless cycle of suds, squeezes, and descents. It paid the bills but Jasper longed for more.
"It's not all bad," Jasper mused aloud, peering through the freshly cleaned glass at the office workers within. "At least I'm not stuck in a stuffy office, hunched over a keyboard all day."
The reflection in the glass stared back at him, rain-washed and somewhat gloomy. It was the face of a man clinging to the edge of his thirties, skin weathered by the elements, eyes the colour of London fog, and with a mop of perpetual bedhead.
"Yes," the reflection seemed to say, "You're not just a nobody. You're a nobody with a view."
Jasper sighed, sipped his cold tea, and moved onto the next window. As his shift neared its end, the sun began its descent. He loved to bathe in the golden hours; when the view transformed into a fractal of amber skyscrapers simmering below a cotton-candy sky. It was beautiful, and Jasper savoured every fleeting second, until the sun had finally set.
While he was preparing his descent back down to civilization, something peculiar caught his eye. One panel stood out amongst the dark, dense blue of the rest, as it was still ablaze with the ethereal hues of the golden hour.
Curious, Jasper navigated his platform over to the anomaly, and peered at it closely. It was as though looking into a different world. Gold and pink hues washed over the window, an echo of the evening's earlier beauty. Even more peculiar was the figure reflected in it: a woman from the office within, her face softly illuminated by the glow of a computer screen. What held Jasper's gaze, though, was not the woman herself, but the aura that surrounded her.
It was an otherworldly glow, fluctuating and pulsating, changing slowly between different colours. Jasper blinked and rubbed his eyes, half expecting the ethereal radiance to disappear. But it persisted, captivating in its mystery. The woman moved, her aura shifting and dancing like firelight on a wall, and Jasper was ensnared by the mesmerising spectacle.
He tilted his head, squinting to see if the other windows held the same power, but they were still just glass and grime. Drawing his attention back to the woman's aura, he allowed himself to slip into the trance. Words began to fill his mind as though he was reading the shifting radiance of light.
A serenade,
Words unsaid, plans delayed,
Password: 'freedom123', my silent plea,
Flicker of blacklight, my yearning to break free,
Dentist appointment next week, a brewing abyss,
Sipping oceans from my coffee cup, searching for bliss,
Dog's paw in my hand, eyes-closed, solace, delight,
Late-night fears, phantom strings, hugged tight,
Lost earring, a keepsake, sunlit reminisce,
Anxiety stacks, unopened mail, a kiss,
Dinner for one, my story is fine,
Yet guilt etched in every line,
I can't keep doing this.
He wrote down the words that he read, and soon thereafter, the glimpse into this secret world had vanished.
Later that night, he stared at the words he had written with a strange sense of accomplishment. He had never been one to wax poetic. School essays were a torment, love letters a catastrophe. But this... this felt different. It was not his voice, not his life, but somehow, he had brought it into the world. On a whim, he pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, and began typing. He placed the words on a pink flowery background. And then posted it onto his near-dead page.
Jasper awoke and immediately looked at his phone's notifications as he always does. To his utter disbelief, his post from the night before had gone viral. Likes and comments were still pouring in! Many said that they had deeply connected with his poem and Jasper swelled with pride. He was having a positive effect on so many people!
Buzzing with a renewed energy, Jasper's work day blurred by. Soon the sun was setting and he was out on his platform. Golden hour began, and the phenomenon of the night prior made a reappearance. A different glass panel of the building was glowing, and Jasper eagerly went to peer inside.
There was a man, crumpled over a desk, sobbing his heart out. His aura was a deep blue. Jasper read it aloud to himself.
Suits and ties,
Deals, denial and lies,
Smiles are thin, eyes tell no tale,
The only thing I need is not for sale,
My father's hopes, my legacy's weight,
The charade of seeming strictly straight,
Tie too tight, can't catch my breath,
Working myself to death,
I have it all on the line,
Yet my life isn't mine
Jasper transcribed the poem into his phone and then opened instagram. This time he picked a nice blue background. Likes and comments began flooding in. Jasper had never received so much attention and it felt incredible that people loved his creations so much.
He, of course, wondered about the true nature of the auras, but his thoughts were mostly concerned with how to best capitalise on this miracle. He rebranded his Instagram page, calling it "Reflections", and designed a logo; a pair of scissors slicing through glass, awash in hues of cotton-candy coloured light. He fell into a routine, posting consistently every working day, and he released hit after hit. He peered into the essence of all sorts of every-day folks, and shared their stories with the world. Before long he was doing the podcast circuit and he even shared a blunt with Joe Rogan. Jasper's brand "Reflections" became very popular and Jasper himself became a midtier influencer.
The soul poems, as he had coined them, came in all sorts of flavours. They offered his followers perspectives from people both alike and very different. Some were angry, some happy, but many were sad. It seemed as though everyone was struggling under the weight of modernity.
Sometimes, Jasper wondered if his actions were evil. Was he exposing a stranger's innermost self? And taking credit for the work that the universe was giving him? Did he earn his success? But Jasper managed to rationalise these away. Begon, pesky moral ambiguity! He was just sharing a gift with the world. And besides, this was all he had.
Many golden hours later, Jasper sits and waits for the pink window to open. He approaches it, peers inside, and a shiver runs down his spine. There is a window cleaner's platform on the other side of the reflection. Upon it, a figure shrouded in shadow was cleaning the reverse side of the glass. As his hand moves, the pink ceases to glow and the glass turns back to normal. The shadow was closing the connection.
"Oh, hello," the shadow says. "Don't worry about this stuff, dude. Your sector of spacetime has been glitching a little." The shadow man gestured at the glass between them. "And I get paid seven bucks an hour to stitch it back up. Your side is not meant to be able to see this, but it happens sometimes, I guess." The shadow was almost finished cleaning their side of the window, the portal between them was now only a pin point.
Jasper blinked, unable to process what he was being told. As the rift of spacetime disappeared for the final time, Jasper stared into his own reflection. Within his aura, he read:
A face of duplicity,
High above a beautiful city,
I'm a plagiarising scribe of light,
In reflections and words, found my might,
Bought recognition, but the tales were sold,
In shadows, their story stole, their name untold,
The feast at the table was never for me,
Stolen secrets, distributed digitally,
From borrowed glory, I emerge,
So this shall be my final verse.
The evening descended upon the city. Jasper posts a final poem. Then, he moved on.
Rain mottled the broad face of the Shard, London's tallest skyscraper. High above the city, defying gravity and weather alike, Jasper manoeuvred his window cleaning platform with the ease of a seasoned mountaineer. In one hand, he held his squeegee, wiping away at the glass in broad, practised strokes. In the other, a flask of tea, from which he sipped intermittently.
Down below, London pulsated with life. Taxi cabs zipped by like neon insects, and businessmen scurried about like ants at a disastrous picnic. The ceaseless roar of life echoed upward. Past a point, though, it became quiet. London's clamour fades into a hum which Jasper had long since learned to tune out.
Cleaning windows was an intimate job. He’d been at it for so long, he'd started to think of the windows as people, each one with its quirks and pet peeves. The ones on the north side screeched if you didn’t squeegee at the right angle. While the east-side windows clung onto grime with unexpected tenacity.
Despite its idiosyncrasies, Jasper's job was nothing if not repetitive. Each day was an exercise in routine, an endless cycle of suds, squeezes, and descents. It paid the bills but Jasper longed for more.
"It's not all bad," Jasper mused aloud, peering through the freshly cleaned glass at the office workers within. "At least I'm not stuck in a stuffy office, hunched over a keyboard all day."
The reflection in the glass stared back at him, rain-washed and somewhat gloomy. It was the face of a man clinging to the edge of his thirties, skin weathered by the elements, eyes the colour of London fog, and with a mop of perpetual bedhead.
"Yes," the reflection seemed to say, "You're not just a nobody. You're a nobody with a view."
Jasper sighed, sipped his cold tea, and moved onto the next window. As his shift neared its end, the sun began its descent. He loved to bathe in the golden hours; when the view transformed into a fractal of amber skyscrapers simmering below a cotton-candy sky. It was beautiful, and Jasper savoured every fleeting second, until the sun had finally set.
While he was preparing his descent back down to civilization, something peculiar caught his eye. One panel stood out amongst the dark, dense blue of the rest, as it was still ablaze with the ethereal hues of the golden hour.
Curious, Jasper navigated his platform over to the anomaly, and peered at it closely. It was as though looking into a different world. Gold and pink hues washed over the window, an echo of the evening's earlier beauty. Even more peculiar was the figure reflected in it: a woman from the office within, her face softly illuminated by the glow of a computer screen. What held Jasper's gaze, though, was not the woman herself, but the aura that surrounded her.
It was an otherworldly glow, fluctuating and pulsating, changing slowly between different colours. Jasper blinked and rubbed his eyes, half expecting the ethereal radiance to disappear. But it persisted, captivating in its mystery. The woman moved, her aura shifting and dancing like firelight on a wall, and Jasper was ensnared by the mesmerising spectacle.
He tilted his head, squinting to see if the other windows held the same power, but they were still just glass and grime. Drawing his attention back to the woman's aura, he allowed himself to slip into the trance. Words began to fill his mind as though he was reading the shifting radiance of light.
A serenade,
Words unsaid, plans delayed,
Password: 'freedom123', my silent plea,
Flicker of blacklight, my yearning to break free,
Dentist appointment next week, a brewing abyss,
Sipping oceans from my coffee cup, searching for bliss,
Dog's paw in my hand, eyes-closed, solace, delight,
Late-night fears, phantom strings, hugged tight,
Lost earring, a keepsake, sunlit reminisce,
Anxiety stacks, unopened mail, a kiss,
Dinner for one, my story is fine,
Yet guilt etched in every line,
I can't keep doing this.
He wrote down the words that he read, and soon thereafter, the glimpse into this secret world had vanished.
Later that night, he stared at the words he had written with a strange sense of accomplishment. He had never been one to wax poetic. School essays were a torment, love letters a catastrophe. But this... this felt different. It was not his voice, not his life, but somehow, he had brought it into the world. On a whim, he pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, and began typing. He placed the words on a pink flowery background. And then posted it onto his near-dead page.
Jasper awoke and immediately looked at his phone's notifications as he always does. To his utter disbelief, his post from the night before had gone viral. Likes and comments were still pouring in! Many said that they had deeply connected with his poem and Jasper swelled with pride. He was having a positive effect on so many people!
Buzzing with a renewed energy, Jasper's work day blurred by. Soon the sun was setting and he was out on his platform. Golden hour began, and the phenomenon of the night prior made a reappearance. A different glass panel of the building was glowing, and Jasper eagerly went to peer inside.
There was a man, crumpled over a desk, sobbing his heart out. His aura was a deep blue. Jasper read it aloud to himself.
Suits and ties,
Deals, denial and lies,
Smiles are thin, eyes tell no tale,
The only thing I need is not for sale,
My father's hopes, my legacy's weight,
The charade of seeming strictly straight,
Tie too tight, can't catch my breath,
Working myself to death,
I have it all on the line,
Yet my life isn't mine
Jasper transcribed the poem into his phone and then opened instagram. This time he picked a nice blue background. Likes and comments began flooding in. Jasper had never received so much attention and it felt incredible that people loved his creations so much.
He, of course, wondered about the true nature of the auras, but his thoughts were mostly concerned with how to best capitalise on this miracle. He rebranded his Instagram page, calling it "Reflections", and designed a logo; a pair of scissors slicing through glass, awash in hues of cotton-candy coloured light. He fell into a routine, posting consistently every working day, and he released hit after hit. He peered into the essence of all sorts of every-day folks, and shared their stories with the world. Before long he was doing the podcast circuit and he even shared a blunt with Joe Rogan. Jasper's brand "Reflections" became very popular and Jasper himself became a midtier influencer.
The soul poems, as he had coined them, came in all sorts of flavours. They offered his followers perspectives from people both alike and very different. Some were angry, some happy, but many were sad. It seemed as though everyone was struggling under the weight of modernity.
Sometimes, Jasper wondered if his actions were evil. Was he exposing a stranger's innermost self? And taking credit for the work that the universe was giving him? Did he earn his success? But Jasper managed to rationalise these away. Begon, pesky moral ambiguity! He was just sharing a gift with the world. And besides, this was all he had.
Many golden hours later, Jasper sits and waits for the pink window to open. He approaches it, peers inside, and a shiver runs down his spine. There is a window cleaner's platform on the other side of the reflection. Upon it, a figure shrouded in shadow was cleaning the reverse side of the glass. As his hand moves, the pink ceases to glow and the glass turns back to normal. The shadow was closing the connection.
"Oh, hello," the shadow says. "Don't worry about this stuff, dude. Your sector of spacetime has been glitching a little." The shadow man gestured at the glass between them. "And I get paid seven bucks an hour to stitch it back up. Your side is not meant to be able to see this, but it happens sometimes, I guess." The shadow was almost finished cleaning their side of the window, the portal between them was now only a pin point.
Jasper blinked, unable to process what he was being told. As the rift of spacetime disappeared for the final time, Jasper stared into his own reflection. Within his aura, he read:
A face of duplicity,
High above a beautiful city,
I'm a plagiarising scribe of light,
In reflections and words, found my might,
Bought recognition, but the tales were sold,
In shadows, their story stole, their name untold,
The feast at the table was never for me,
Stolen secrets, distributed digitally,
From borrowed glory, I emerge,
So this shall be my final verse.
The evening descended upon the city. Jasper posts a final poem. Then, he moved on.