On a street corner was where he decided to spend some of his morning. Watching and waiting. Keeping an eye on the comings and goings. Mainly just for the sake of something to do. Otherwise he'd likely be out there snatching at purses and running amok. Like most.

As the moments ticked on, he found himself inspired to write something. His inner calling needed an audience. An avenue. Some way of escaping him. With pad and pen in hand he let his thoughts gush out onto the page.

Someone once said that life was what you made of it. Implied that at the end of your sleeves, you had the power to choose. To write your own story. Through each action taken or denied. Like you were the master of your own destiny.

Like each moment was but a crossroads. A set of signs that showed you a path. A way forward. And you had to choose. You simply had to point your finger and follow it with the rest of your being.

But what if it were all a lie. What if there was no choice. No master in control. No self in control. No ability to pick this way or that way and then beat the feet. What if you never really had an option.

Like life was pointing back at you and laughing. Knowing too well who you were. Are. And what you would do. Which signs were never an option. Never a potential path to travel.

Because we are who we are. We may run from it or hide it. We may pretend for a moment we are someone else, or someone different. But we know. Deep down we know just what awaits us.

The game seems to be one of hide and seek. We know who we are, yet we run from it. Legs and arms pumping, but never truly moving. Then we fake going left when all the while we end up going right.

A charade. A Matinee. A play where we are but the insignificant members of the audience. Witnesses to life doing itself. Just waiting for the real shit to begin. Whilst we stand there, frozen in time.

It was done. Francis felt the enthusiasm come to a close. Like a dripping tap being turned off at the source. With a final scribble, he penned the initials FC underneath.

The priest left the writing Instrument on top of the writing pad, open to the page. A gift for whomever might pass this way and were drawn to what was left on top of a wooden crate, out front of a coffee shop.

Maybe someone would also like to add to the notepad and let their creativity soar, Father Francis mused as he casually walked away. He tucked his hands deep into his jacket pockets, feeling a little better for leaving a bit of his soul in written form. A part of him left behind, frozen in time.

After finally losing his tail from snatching purses and running amok, Rat finally slowed down at the street corner to catch his breath.  Spotting the wooden crate in front of the coffee shop, he decided to sit down on it.  He quickly looked around to see if the notepad sitting there had a nearby owner before he picked it up, almost dropping the writing Instrument onto the ground. 

Curiosity led him to read what was written upon the pad.  After several moments as his breath slowed and he took in the words, he took up to writing upon the pad.  He looked around one last time for an owner before starting.

Life is to short to waste standing still.  Take what you can, when you can.  If you don't, you will be the vic.

-RS

p.s. Eat cheese its great!

With his breathing under control, Rat stood up and set the pad back down on the crate and walked into the coffee shop for a much needed drink.  He chuckled to himself as he entered the shop and for a brief moment everyone appeared to be frozen.  Thinking to himself he wondered, "Which one of these people is going to pay for my coffee?"