8 minutes

I work in an industrial estate. I studied ancient literature and now I wash grease off my hands in a tiny factory bathroom.
As I walk to work the sun climbs over the chimneys, pumping black and occasionally dark blue smoke into the air. Seems like a magic show, but the magician has fainted and his tricks are just amusing themselves.
There are orange and purple flowers outside a house I walk by, the petals get stuck to my shoes and I carry them on a small nature walk. My umbrella broke so now I just grin and bare the rain when it decides to shower. Water drips down my glasses and I turn into a windshield with broken wipers, replete with chips from flying rocks.
The workers stand and smoke and gurgle about sport and divorce and I sit and count the wrinkles on my hands, searching for a map out, a clear sign to the exit of skin and pain.
I’m used to pain now. I work with it and carry it home like I was carrying a child on my shoulders. I hurt when I see the clouds carry the world’s dreams and expressions. Millions of conversations and sighs of relief dissipating into the air and wavering over my head.
My legs ache and my shoes feel of iron. I step on the green grass; so green, like a deep lake, its velvet nature making the softest noise, it soaks up the screams of a mechanical world behind me.
The birds laugh, or sing, I can never tell, at the way I walk to and from my paycheck routine. The animals stare in disbelief at the only species on the block that really doesn’t know what its doing.
All I can do is breathe in the colours, the noises that calm, the breathtaking predictability of a place I never thought I would be.

8 minutes

atticus

Joined September 2008

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