why i'm here

It’s cold in the morning in the city. I’m off the bus walking to the office. Headphones on, wool coat, rushing through downtown in the morning.

Suits everywhere, and I’m one of them. Beautiful women and groomed men. Made up and bundled up—lawyers, lobbyists, kids of money and privilege, rushing to K Streetjobs. Never get used to this place.

It’s the last block before the office. I feel the cold wind on my face, my eyes. Shoes clicking on the icy sidewalk, music in my ears.

Here comes the best part of the day. I approach and get ready. I take a deep breath.

Off to the right the wall of buildings opens up for a second. There’s an undergound parking garage and a driveway opens a slice through the buildings to the sky. I see it open further and further. I slow down and look.

There it is. The sky opens up a bright blue triangle. Multi-colored buildings border it. There it is, I think. Electric blue, the color of ice tossed in a furnace. I think of flight, of freedom.

For three seconds, I’m free. No suits, no phony people. I’m home.

I keep walking, looking up. The opening closes up.

I snap back to reality. Fuck that shit, I think. Time for fucking damage, for work. I pull off the headphones and keep walking.

In a few seconds I’m in a marble lobby, waiting for the elevator. It’s quiet.

I relax a fist. Here we go. The writing is why I’m here.

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