The biggest sin in London is to study it in abstraction – to
learn the city through satellite images and sociology journals. From the cozy perch of a library desk it’s
easy to generalise the buzzing groups of pedestrians into mindless herds or to
view the emptying churches as signs of an increasingly secular city but London
is all of these things and none of them. Within the herd no two people trod the
same path and outside of the church each individual worships a religion of
their own.
While the sound of nearby church bells filter through the
street, signaling the start of an ancient rite, a practiced fisher of men
welcomes a weary disciple to a barstool and pours him a drink.
Across the street, a devout young woman stares in reverent
wonder at the saintly statues in the showcases - those idols whose embellished
bodies, adorned with beads and fabric, serve as reminders of how people should
live.
In this city where fortunes change as quickly as the
weather, a man in rags begs for alms while one in a crisp suit claims a
tithe. Oblivious, an aging scholar lets
his worn shoes lead him down the familiar path of the halls where seeds of
learning are sown and minds are harvested.
An aspiring author wanders the city, tracing the footsteps
of some great orator or literary saviour as old as the cobblestones underfoot.
Nearby, a casual historian enters a doorway to view a collection plate filled
with the treasures of countless other nations.
One devotee follows the star on an illuminated sign to
worship at the altar of the coffee counter while, in a stately building;
parties prophesy apocalyptic results and resurrect dusty tomes of policies and
precedents.
Somewhere, choirs of voices rise from the spotlighted stages
of theatres, singing hymns in praise of spandex and sequins while, down a
nearby alley a red light signals to wary pilgrims a gateway into the Holy Land.
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