A Day in the Strife

I always thought it was absence that made the nose grow longer? Oh well, I was wrong once before I think, about something or other. . . I don’t remember.

Today a great, thick, grey fog enshrouds the city and for once it didn’t burn off around noon like it usually does around this part of the world which reminds me of a similar day many years ago. . .

It was April and still freezing as a golden smog settled over the city. Vehicles dawdled along, hither and tither, back and forth, left and right, all around. The mindless suit wearing drones rambled about the streets, wandering without hope or purpose. Their faces ashen, their bodies leaden, their minds ticking away at half speed, not wanting to remind themselves or in any way think about the uselessness of their miserable existences. They mill about, bumping into each other, briefcases in hands, eyes downcast, never wavering from the grey mottled sidewalks, roads and carpets of their lives. Locked in for twenty-five years at nine and a half percent in a place that's collapsing around their ears.

Darkness engulfs.

The drones were almost gone and the humans once again have taken over the dark asphalt of the city streets. The downtown core has come alive, liquor flowed, currency exchanged, and the lights have turned the roads into a colourful kaleidoscope of beauty. Yellows, and oranges, and reds, and blues, and purples, and people, and purple people eaters. The drones drove back to the suburbs where they belong, away from what they call the "freaks" of the inner city. They close their minds to what is real and original and good. Too long have they been stuck, grinding their teeth and biting back against their self imposed bitterness and depression. Hating out of jealousy, confusion, or worse, hating for hate's sake. Hating with a hate that stems from a lack of understanding, or remembering what it was like to understand.

Walking among them, I sometimes feel sorry for the dead men and women who somehow find the strength to walk. The looks of disgust I receive, the mocking laughter - feh! The pity fades quickly. They're dead, but they don't know it yet. They point and call names, out to make himself or herself feel better, to somehow justify their empty existences.

Boots clunking, chains clinking, hands in pockets, breath just barely visible in the cold winter air. People, cars and trucks, slipping, spinning and sliding all around me, a chaotic miasma of human frailty. Fun for the whole family! The ice coats everything, from the tallest building to the tiniest stone. A drone slips, and flails his arms wide, one hand catching on to a parked vehicle's side view mirror. It snaps off with what seems like ridiculous ease, plastic and grit tumble, almost in slow motion, to the sidewalk around the fallen man. I offered a helping hand, only to be violently rebuffed. Told to mind my own fucking business.

"Get the fuck away from me! Mind your own fucking business, freak!”

So I do. I walk away, leaving him to try to haul his freezing carcass from the icy sidewalk. He slips again, and this time his briefcase pops open upon impact, sending an endless variety of papers, pens, pointers and highlighters scattering across the concrete. I don't even laugh. Karma has already had its chuckle.