I'm down here wearing work clothes, blending in with the office people while the wind picks you up and blows you out of town. What else is there to do, anyway?
There's the rest of this day and then tomorrow and a Thursday morning meeting. Everyone is walking to lunch, discussing the long weekend and their fantasy football leagues. Standing in line for coffee this morning, I was surprised how numb I was. Maybe it's a stages-of-grief thing or a medication side effect. Either way, it has spread to my bones.
Thinking of all of the terminally broken people I know. Or those already in the late stages, the ones I stride past in the shade of Union Station, stepping carefully around their sprawled-out legs. "That's coming for you, too," it whispers, fingers cold around my wrist.
"Are these shadows of things that must be or are they shadows of things that might be?" But the season's all wrong for Dickens quotes.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
I read this on BART on my way into work this morning. The imagery (spreading to your bones, cold fingers around your wrist) was downright haunting as I, among the hoardes of barely conscious commuters, jostled my way on to the escalator (now kind of feeling like livestock crowding through one of those Temple Grandin innovations). And that Dickens quote just rattled around in my brain long after I turned the computer on in my freakin' cubicle. Way to make me start the day with an existential crisis, eh?
ReplyDelete