The streets are empty so am I

I've kept myself busy
I've found a job 
Climbing the mountains of clothes
Befriending dust, colors and distant voices
I wanted to capture the empty streets of this city
Because I found out it can speak to me only through its empty streets
A sight seeing of the invisible
I am a bad tourist
Tourist who always complains about its hurting feet, empty pocket and bad orientation
I didn't know where Mathematical bridge is even after spending almost a year here.
But I've known the empty streets; The dusty eyes of the windows;
One curtain, always left hanging outside, murmuring to the wind of its lonely being;
In the rare hours when I am not climbing the mountain of clothes 
I am wandering, trying to focus or lose sight of all that is obvious
I don't want to befriend obvious I want to keep this slow conversation with the city 
My voiceless cry don't bother it. Cambridge has known silent criers before 
Long before me 
One more on the pile of leaves, one more dimming shadow, caressing the old stone walls, the newer bricks, which no longer will be as red as they once were. Oh wish I could bring back my colors too. But this conversation is about something else. Very often I am trying to avoid it, cowardly. Trying once more to go back to it becomes harder and harder.

Have I told you? I am losing my hearing. My right ear is muffled. I've heard a muffled sound of the church's bells. A few miles away Steven Hawking has died. In the same day when i was trying to talk to the city. I was wondering why the streets are so crowded. People look so cheerful when mourning.

Perhaps nothing ever ends. Nothing ever ends well or bad. Nothing, especially conversations with empty cities like this one.

Some subjects are hard to avoid. My silence, my empty pocket, my muffled ear, my misery for no reason - let me be clear, I am not proud of the fact I can only befriend emptiest streets. At least I am borrowing books from the city's library. Nia's advice - 'Make sure you have a library card once you step there!' I did.

Cambridge speaks through its books. I am a blind borrower. I never know what to read. I read books from the 50th page and back. Or sometimes like a normal reader. Or whatever the mood is. Moody borrower. There is something astonishing about books that are not mine. Back home I used to always buy books. I used to flirt with them in the book store for a while, until I have money to afford them. I was befriending books. Here - all books are strangers. With food stains, coffee stains, stains of ashes and dust. Stamped by human fingers all over.  
The first book I saw was by an old friend - the Irishman with the blue eyes. Cambridge lend Belacqua's voice to tell me - where only stones are found at the end - something begins. Becket's eho's bones left me scattered. I am nobody here. I have a few gems well kept. My irony, my contemplation, my hurting bones - my senses. Have I told you I am losing my mind? No, I am losing my hearing. At the beginning of this year I went to a school. The place I hated the most when I was younger. Back to school, I said. They've taught me how to use a muffled microphone, how to connect it to a camera. Do you know what muffler is?, they asked. I was only guessing. I was eager to learn. Soon my ear got muffled. You learn. You always somehow anyhow do learn. 
Cambridge always wants to speak to me. Even when my mood got bitter. It speaks to me with an Irish voice and in Japanese  language. It speaks of knowledge and it likes to remind me of all things yet unknown. It blabs about landscape, old bones, scattered female souls and lost men. If I ever write a letter again it will be addressed to Cambridge. Mathematical Bridge. I am writing to you, to tell you I was a non-believer. I was afraid of numbers, thought they have nothing to do with poetry. I was afraid of water too. But math is building bridges. Non-believers and converts both needs them to cross paths. And so Cambridge suddenly took over a female voice who spoke of building waves (Taeko Tomioka). The bulldozers are digging, the layers of earth are revealing, today just like thousands of years ago, earthly fears and empty attempts.
My salty questions. My half-empty glass. 
The conversation often ends like this - I am starting to read the book, at the minute I realize it's the city speaking to me, I am closing the page. Check the time. Thinking of hurrying up, letting myself remember of my aching bones and so on, and so on. 
I am taking another book to forget about the old conversation. 
Only to find out the author of the newly borrowed book (Natsume Soseki) was once living in Cambridge. Poor, miserable and unsatisfied. The shy man with clean and tidy shoes, with European costume, with his very own sharpness - utterly Japanese. I am reading one of his unpopular books. Only to find out he once wrote how unhappy he was here. 
I am not trying to be happy anywhere. That's for sure. Man, I am not even trying.
But I will have new friends. And I will walk from end to end all the empty streets here. Because they are numbers and poems and strangers to fall in love with. They are the beating heart, the hurting bones, the core of every stone. And The British Still Use "Stone" As A Weight Measurement ... I have to befriend every stone and to imagine its way from one place to another. May be I will see more clearly the point of my own movement - from one place to another.