The cold is crisp, darkness growing. I watch the horizon's orange glow seep through treetops, which are swaying like tired drunkards in the high wind. The streetlights and bar signs now soften the shadows, and I see Monika in the alley below. There are margaritas to drink and adventures to find, but I can't leave yet.
I'm bound to this roof- my philosopher's chair, my retreat. Each red brick provokes, cold pipes startling my senses. Soft rooftop tiles remind me to be considerate of my fellow men, whose lives play out private monotony and passion just below my tread. "Did you hear that, honey?" "No, dear." I leave no trace.
I believe rooftops are truth. Distant but immediate, ever-present and often forgotten. My city sanctuary high above the rush, trash-free and with a view. Rooftops offer an opportunity to step out and above my perspectives, responsibilities, and routines. A chance to sip wine, touch rust, watch the world, and quietly consider reality.
But margaritas and credit card bills beckon, and friends' patience is tested. Stepping onto the fire escape, I look, I breathe, and I feel the wind. And then I descend to the world again.
No comments:
Post a Comment