wb :

Directions

Red light green light angry red and orange lights blaring in a traffic jam. Don't walk, walk, no u-turns, slow traffic, 70, end of school zone. They say it's like clockwork, I say it's more like music, with a conductor armed with a giant whip. Tempo is king, if it's your time, it's your time. It's cleverly strewn together; sometimes dancing with fluid graceful headlights, sometimes a moving paradox like 'expressway'. This is the river where the blood of a city flows. It scares me, because a road is a place of mortal peril: always looking for toes out of line to smash-crush-destroy in a spectacular story spanning news agencies. I saw it coming. A road is the place where individuality goes to die, replaced by - they say it's clockwork, I say it's more like music.

So this is it: the smooth new cigarette between tired lips, the metallic click of the lighter, the ghostly, wispy sigh of a tragic collision of karma. This is how it ends; after the rain, the park probably wouldn't burn if I dropped my cigarette on purpose. A civic minded shoe smothers the fire, a first step of a long journey on a completely different path towards the sunset. Maybe the giant 'The End' appears only when you reach it. Lately, I've let myself go, checked my teeth and tie in the rear view mirror too many times. Sultry was the name of your smile, and the showbiz was too much for you to take. Dead-end, no-go, because we've reached the metaphorical place between the devil and the deep blue sea. Where do we go from here?

I'll be walking, running if I have to. I'll be fine, with a briefcase full of manuscripts in one hand, unimpressive scars in the other, and the wind rubbing shoulders (please stay in Lane 1). And when we (inevitably) reach the same crossroads again, please wave hello, because green men get very bored with their thankless cycle.




P.S. Sorry for spamming.

Labels: prose