The time is a December morning’s triple threes, and I barely made it back. Falling layers of glistening dust, this way gust. It’s snowing for real for the first time this year, weather to which one has looked forward only if nine-years-old and the proud owner of a sled. Otherwise, snow is a delaying job commute littered with icy piles and accidents and salt trucks, and probably all three. Snow is a bad ending. Snow is everything is dying. And I think maybe I am, too. Not like the immediate, like I have lymphoma or a blood clot kind of thing, or even like I smoke too many cigarettes. The point is, this can’t be living. This feels like entirely the wrong direction.
Against the steel cold rails of a balcony, it’s higher up here than usual. But don’t worry about me, as I glance down.
Down.
Down.
Sounds and every kind of traffic, a view from this height spoils anybody’s delusional illusion of unique purpose. A view from this height is a reflecting and neverending commonality you want to avoid. From up here, there aren’t faces. From up here, there aren’t even people. Each person isn’t one, only their contribution to whatever this bigger whole, a component of some kind of system. Hundreds of feet down is where I’m looking, some intricately woven ant farm of super highways and too many lights, actually clotted veins of a confused complexity trying to do just one thing: sustain. And even that’s going all wrong. These people if you like to call them that, all of them have a place to be, and it’s really completely the same place to be. Whatever contributing function they chose to be forced into: mother, doctor, student; their role essentially is that they are oriented and mobile, capable and eager serve. They and we really are all one. Not in a good way anymore.
December is it’s cold outside. I’m not up here as much.
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