No matter how brightly the milky winter sun attempts to shine down
into the cross-town canyons of Midtown
the streets are dim, dusky, in the cement shadows of the buildings.
The streets have the dusty feeling of an attic, steeped in perpetual
twilight.
The sunlight, which cannot, or will
not, filter its way down to the canyon floor, glows on the tops of the
buildings; the skyscrapers.
Even the word becomes divine when
bathed in sunlight, and spoken slowly, and thought about.
The emaciated sunlight reflects off
the wet avenues,
attempting to bolster itself into
brilliance and blinding the people who come scuttling from the dimness
between the buildings.
These people, who spend their lives
in the canyons, do not need the light to blind them.
They are oblivious to the dimness
of their streets, to the fact that the pathetic winter sunlight scorns
them for the tips of the canyon, which they cut.
The buildings spit and suck the
people from their cavernous doorways in never-ending fits and starts.
The stream of people, which cut
the chasm of skyscrapers, is now insignificant in the shadow of its creation.
They move quickly through the streets
with the air of those who have walked the same route too many times for
it to be worth noticing anymore.
From one of the skyscrapers a singular
person emerges.
This person is not bathed in sunlight,
nor does this person have the aura of anyone of great importance.
There is no reason for the street
to catch its breath, to snag on the moment this person is spat from the
building.
Yet it does. This person moves with
the current of people with the ease of one who belongs.
Yet this person travels towards
her destination without the single-mindedness of an indigenous city dweller.
As this person walks, her gaze absorbs
every harsh line of the streets.
This person sees that the pale sunlight
scorns the paler creatures that created the magnificent steel canyons.
This person sees that the tips of
the buildings themselves are better loved by the sun than their creators.
This person is a part of life in
the depths of the canyons, which is always hazy and moist with the unnoticed.
And this person knows, this person
has thought about, the fact that "skyscraper", when savored and rolled
against the tongue, is a divine word.
The steady tide of people who are blind to the streets on which they
walk, to the paltry heat of the winter sun, which disdains them, notice
this person.
They feel her eyes caressing, seeing, the scene to which they are complete
strangers, and, not understanding what they cannot perceive,
they assume the gaze they feel is
directed at them. Although, this person no more sees the creators
of the buildings, than they see their creations.
However, they see this person, their
only link to the world in which they live. This person is bored into
the memories of these people.
This person becomes the only thing
in their day that they will remember. |