Chance of Humanity

Though the habit usually drops off, so upon a First Day into the Station or the Building of any city institution so one contemplates all the lives swarming around. Fighting for a spot in the next shuttle.

You stop considering each face, of course, because it’s too hard to keep up. It’s a constant stream of unfamiliarity. Eyes to glaze over after the first five hundred — what else is there to note? Whether you capture the concerned look a man made sitting across so it’s lost within 30 minutes to the next stop.

If you have the pleasure of roaming half-formed districts, neither rural nor urban, only confiscated and strained together through grocery stores, gerrymandering, so the habit lurches out randomly. What everyone is wearing or purchasing. You won’t know these people, but it’s funny to think how you render to others all the same. File in line, blur soon after. Merge into the daily mob everyone is dissolved in, an appropriate purple pigment most likely.

Perhaps this is why creating anything is attractive. Because whether you keep the swarm-note habit or not, it’s only a marginal detergent to being swallowed in bureaucratic mass-body processes.

Each person in the mob was once a child since we like to tug at suicidal empathy heartstrings and make some melody. It’s awfully silent all the time anyway, and why not make a choir for this insignificant day, before it turns into an insignificant life, or was it always?

I’ll drag my umbrella and make methodic thuds on the groundway yellow grips before boarding. And I’ll tap the same rhythm upon the shoulder rail in a personal protest. I want it to mean something.

If I can’t make it mean anything out there, then I’ll make a world of meaning between walls. Even if I am blanked face staring at the cashier, I can at least crease each dollar bill into a crooked triangle smile before sliding each into my fictional wallet. Have doorways come draped with a phantom white and red sash signifying a new holiday, dotted in poinsettias. Out toward the road until land jettisoned and parking in a long strip with an island at the end, manatees lurking the shores, seagulls to trot away upon exiting the driver door.

It could happen, it may be possible, maybe it already was and remixed, but creation is good enough on its own to dwell in. While one mostly lives as something less than human, integrated in, so in a creative force one can live as something more. Living evidence of an existence. Something more than human.

If you have any aristocratic aspirations, spiritual streak between, it seems the final trial is to stomp out all emotions. I can only hope one still sees the magic found in every passing, emotions and all. How else can you walk in God’s step without an impartial overflow love toward everyone?

“Make it wonderful,” an angel would whisper.