two four six oh one

Sometimes, he guesses, a person can lose his identity in an unexpected place.

another order

He feels trapped inside sometimes. Everything here is so orderly. Computers in rows. Armrests under the desks. And windows. The windows are insufferable. They taunt him daily, showing life outside. Trees. Grass. A pond. Sculpture. It’s all there. He’s in here.

But today, he gets to see different order. A strange order. Not his workplace, but another. And the order is tremendous. He doesn’t know how to capture it. That’s his job right now. Capture it.

He wonders if those trapped in here long for the life beyond the glass. Or even just a different order.

Maybe his?

Hello

He makes it out to these things every once in while, but he never wants to stay for too long.  This is a special occasion: the last cooking before a friend crosses the pond.  That’s why he’s here.  To say goodbye. For now.  But friends come home or back eventually.  He says goodbye more than once, never knowing which will be the last.

But now, he places emphasis, perhaps undue, on the first meetings.  He only gets one of those for everyone.  And it might be the last goodbye.

west to east

He looks in the mirror and sees mostly blue skies behind him. An odd occurrence, to be sure, as he remembers the sky’s fury. He knows he was just there, and his hair is still wet. But yet, blue skies and one fluffy white cloud. But then he remembers something else: west to east. One storm has passed, sure. One storm rained and moved on. He idly taps fingers on an umbrella as he sees the next thunderhead. This time, he’s ready.

sunsets in due time

He dislikes the idea of a fallible memory, that a memory can be sweeter and more perfect than the reality itself was. As he looks out off of the balcony, he knows the memory will be nothing like what he’s experienced tonight. Parts will be exaggerated, parts cut out entirely. And, when he sees the same scene again, it might be disappointing.

But he hopes not. Maybe this time, his memory is dead on. Maybe the next time he looks out from the balcony, the scene will be just as sweet as he remembers it. But then the sun will set again, and he’ll have to wait through another long day.

But he’s got a hunch: it’s worth waiting for.

who can say?

The trail is crowded today, but that doesn’t matter. The rocks and trees don’t care, and neither does he. Nature is gorgeous and pleasantly cool. Climbs through a cave a couple of times, one that nobody knows about. He enjoys the exclusion. Also the community. Then he sees it.

He wonders why they did it. Perhaps it was too close to the path? He’s unsure. Either way, the caretakers of this place said it needed to come down, so it did. Maybe they didn’t want to cut it? But they had to. Maybe it was hard to change the path so much? But they did it. For the better? He doesn’t know. For good, though.

every season

Old and new. Together. That’s something to see. The solid stone of the past with the new flowers of the spring. Beautiful symphony. He always wonders about that. Why do people run from who they are? He hides from his past, to a degree, sure. But he has never changed himself simply because of a new geography. Maybe he values the past too much? Maybe that stone building shouldn’t have the high esteem that it does? But he knows this: the past is something to learn from, even if it’s something to run from.

chemicals and photons

By his own account, he’s paint. He walks out his apartment for the penultimate time, and he stops. He’s definitely paint. Light and paint. Mixing the spectrum, they are very different. Paint, an ugly, brown slurry. A milkshake of strength and weakness.  Light, beautiful radiance.  Pure.

He’s jealous of light, how effortlessly it separates. How it can bring out the best with a soft glow or the truth with its power. But paint is life. A concoction of events that he’s seen before. The same ugly shade of brown. But he’s never seen blue like this. Twenty seconds, and he moves on. At least his feet do. He lingers on separation. A chemist, he knows that separating the slurry is not trivial. Light needs just a prism. Paint, a lab. He’s definitely paint.

tethered hope

He always defined himself by his success, and why not? He had no major failures, only slight setbacks on the route to success. Everything came easily to him. Maybe that’s why it changed him so much. They walk past it every day, and he wonders if she wonders the same things he does. Does it work? Who is in the other end? Some days the box is closed, others it is open. Open today. Is this some strange ritual of strange people crying out? Is it just the wind? She probably doesn’t even think about it. Maybe she notices the graffiti on the outside, maybe only the box’s existence half way up the hill. But she definitely doesn’t see it the way he does.

Maybe the box is for comfort. Late at night, a stretch of street with no escape, peace of mind. If only it brought him comfort. He’s uncomfortably aware of his arms swinging awkwardly, his head’s unnatural cant toward the ground. Everything else a blur. He knows a new feeling today. Failure. Defeat. Brokenness. Whatever they call it. And it hurts. More than a normal person? He doesn’t know. He hopes it does for their sake. Today he walks past and knows why it didn’t save him. Pride. A tough swallow.

the walk

The footbridge is always the tensest part of the nocturnal journey. Perhaps it’s paranoia, but he rationalizes it with the semimonthly incident reports that tell the same story. Alone at night, large men in black clothes, guns or knives, and stolen wallets. The bridge itself is not altogether comforting, even in daylight. It is a temporary convenience, an amalgamation of steel and wood to replace the stone behemoth, recently declared structurally unsound, that normally traverses the tracks. To the observer, it is well lit; however, he can’t help but curse the blinding sodium as his feet strike the plywood floor.

The CSX train below shakes sole and soul, rendering the night silent with its thunder. Two useful senses gone, he has lost all advantage that his constant vigilance brings. Humoring himself, he flicks his tongue like a snake, vainly hoping to catch a hint of danger. That’s not his biology, but he is aware of his own. Bioelectricity through the sympathetic chain, adrenaline. A textbook in motion.

Sole reaches concrete, he reaches an approximation of peace. Left and right, there is nothing but empty street and sidewalk.