Trafalgar Square Diaries

For context, I’m on Trafalgar Square, eating almonds in between my classes. Chilling.

I’m listening to ‘She’s Electric’ by Oasis. Apparently they were huge here back in the day, and I can see (or rather, I can hear) why. 

My earbuds drown out the street performer singing in front of the National Gallery. I’ve developed somewhat of a distaste for street performers. Desperate to be famous, the reality is their ego will never be satisfied. Their vanity, though, will carry on their dream of having a stadium full of people admiring them one day. 50,000 people, eyes on one. If you think about it, it takes a narcissist to achieve musical glory. I’m thinking of you, Kanye West.

And maybe that applies to my own dreams with writing, with my attempt to be an artist in the craft of it. Perhaps art, when successful, is really only beautiful narcissism.

-Go away, fuck off! You’re scamming people!

My thoughts are interrupted by a working bloke yelling at a Romani woman who is attempting to get money from tourists who accept a rose. She, in her traditional-looking red dress and bad teeth, curses back at him angrily. He’s not afraid in the slightest of her. Funny thing, when he first yelled at her, I thought he was talking to a pigeon.