Personal mythology (1): the Basilisk

When I used to live in Bristol, there was a particular square in a
particular shopping precinct which I really didn't like:



The square is a lifeless space; the buildings around it are
tired and sullen, brutal in showing their age. The place smells of cold
and concrete, with the occasional whiff of sugar nuts from a stall on
the far side of the square. All around the square, glass separates the
crowd from the merchandise; shoppers step around one
another, no eyes for anything outside their own private communion
with the glossy mannequins. Their unseeing movement, their total lack
of
care, their eyes and thoughts constantly on the other side of those
generous panes of glass… this is where it lives, where it can feed off
the unconcern. Where it can lounge in plain sight and still nobody
notices, their eyes tuned to merchandise, their minds turned inwards.


This is the home of the basilisk. I can feel it. I can practically see it. It
fills the entire space, curled in on itself, dozing.



I can feel its satiated eye as it lazily watches me.