Commute

I like the winter sun. It's untimely in a city where sweaters would long be discarded, if they were woken from perennial hibernation, to begin with. February is knocking. This month's been a flash, and the year before it felt like a blink. I'll make it to work in time, but how much do I really have left? Calculation doesn't always have the answers. People walk purposefully towards whatever it is that keeps them awake at night. I am grateful for the breeze. Can't remember the last time I heard 'Life's a breeze'. School, I think. Where did all the lessons get us? Our inventiveness is incendiary. We keep finding new ways to hate one another and hurt ourselves. Everything dies except for hatred. We have inherited it and it is ours to bury. Mornings are a commute, trudging the country miles betwixt bed and bath, from coffee to clothes to cab. Anything can be a metaphor for anything if you spend two more minutes than you should with it. I don’t desire to dwell in one. Give me real or the room to make it. Somewhere in the crowd jostling into the train station, stealing steps on each other at each turn, is someone humming their one track playlist, louder than they imagine. Flowers perfume a square inch of air, offering up the faintest whiff to drivers-by, a gentle jolt that reminds me of the sun. It has been my friend this day. I will follow back. Go on, shine me the light of a million medallions. I won’t shy away from this dalliance. I will live here for the length of a single moment that holds within it the entirety of my existence. It is possible to feel infinite and infinitesimal at once. To will oneself into being at will. Will I remain long enough to watch myself grow cold? Will every single thing in these shops ever get sold? Dream. Be positive. Kindness is a beautiful thing. Save the world. Love me tender. The pop colour graffiti on the walls, our last bastion of expression, has taken a turn for the profound. I look around. Between a bottleneck and a traffic light. All of us wait, to be found.