Words on a street

The morning was gloom and wet. A comfort came with it, a feeling of sleep in your eyes, as you walk through the showering raindrops, not too heavy, but not too light. I was coming from the local store, she needed breakfast and I was always prepared to make it for her, as she was for me. We took turns. As I stood on the pavement outside of the store, I thought of the wet, gloom morning of my childhood with my Mother, as I was going off to school. Oh, how you think things are so right at an age, but they are so wrong.

The sound of the car wheels swooshing along the slippery and wet roads and the slight sprinkle of raindrops pat against the green leaves of trees. I had planned to go home, make her breakfast and plan to sleep nine hours of the day off so I could wake up that night and begin writing, again. My commitment began to take shape.

The population of the pavement I was passing on began to become apparent. The regular, boring, stale, college graduates, the “I got off my a*s and got a job" people, the “how about you do the same?" people, a woman’s fragrant cheap perfume consumed my senses as I passed her. A man’s cheap cologne, his lousy carrier bag which was a beige colour, swung over his shoulder, holstering it up to his side because of the flimsy shoulder band. All of them, apart of some pathetic ritual, some standard, a message, an evolution of beings, the “new" generation, apart of a corporate business, telemarketers, travel businesses, they drink, smoke, s**t, piss, eat, f**k, masturbate, weep, smile, laugh, live and die, like you. 

They packed onto the train like a slave ship, calling aboard new members and throwing off old and unfit ones, ones who have done their labor, ones who are frail and rotten. Very few of them leave happy and comfortable. But that’s not what I write about. I write about the poor, the weak, the frail, the old, the drunks, the addicts, the weirdos, the sad, the boldness of life as it is for many of us. 

She’s asleep now and I’m writing. Sometimes, when I write, she weeps and I write about how beautiful it sounds.