He got on just in front of the closing doors and stood opposite an empty seat in an otherwise crowded underground train, one arm clutching the bar above for balance, the other his bag, and after finding room for his eyes, let, one by one, dear reminiscences that had no place in that unfeeling carriage, drape over the laps of the rocking commuters onto the seats and floor, and all along the dirty steps and windy passageways as he walked his way to work.
“Look, a pale petaled daffodil has found its way into this bunch of yellow ones.” He lifted the small jug on the table to take a closer look, then put it down again and turned it slightly.
“A different cup, perhaps” he thought, looking into the cupboard.
I must admit, in all seriousness, I’ve never truly felt human…never really felt an affiliation with that idea. Have you? Certainly, the idea has settled on my shoulders…but whenever it is not there, perhaps for a few moments upon waking, I feel as if I can fly again, ecstatic, all my cares, concerns, gone.
There is no effort in this street of parked cars,
In the empty hush of this workday morning,
In these bare parked trees,
In this parked place.
There is no effort in being lost.
