Commuting to nowhere
Today's first email... just as perplexing and mysterious as the morning.
There are about fifty people, who, if asked “Is Luke a morning person?” would reply “You’re joking aren’t you?”
Needless to say, I’ve missed my fair share of sunrises. But on the rare occasions when I manage to beat the sun out of bed, I’m always surprised by the peace washing around the streets in those first few hours of daylight. It’s as if the city is just waking up, yawning away the last of its dreams before it rolls into the day.
This early in the morning, I'm not the only one squinting against the rising sun. But I might be the only human. A grey cat, as fluffy as it is feline, welcomes the day on soaked steps. He catches my eye as I pass and holds me in his stare. He’s curious, why are you here? He asks. Couldn’t sleep, I reply and step past him, casting my shadow across his stretch of sun. It pulls his attention, and now he’s following my heels, ringing the bell dangling from his collar with every bouncy step. Then at the corner of the street, he pauses. It’s here where the road meets the canal, and I see the others who have taken their cue to start the day from the creeping sunrise. They’re swimming side-by-side like soul mates who've never let go of each other's hand. Behind them, a subtle wake follows as shadows follow the sun, wobbling in the dazzling light. Good morning, I say, and the one furthest from me nods. Only in small towns do such pleasantries persist. I stand on the bridge, watching them drift into the distance and wonder how rare their love is? How many of us get to meet our soulmates, let alone swim next to them every morning?
I follow their direction, but they’re too swift for my steps and disappear into the day. A mist is lifting itself from the shimmering water. One of the remaining reminiscences of Spring. I watch it spin into the sky like steam rising from a hot bath: healing and indulgent. Is that why the swimmers were so content on their morning commute? Maybe love had nothing to do with it after all.
On the other side of the canal, a line of trees erupts in song, diverting my thoughts from water to sky. I look up, but the origins hide in the fresh coats of green. There's a melody I recognise, one filled with nostalgia, but I can't name it. I listen carefully, giving each performer the attention they deserve, trying to place every new chorus. Is it something from home or from my adventures abroad? I wonder when and where they practice. Surely, songs this complicated have to be; there's an effortlessness that points to hours of rehearsal. Is there a place out of earshot where they gather?
There’s an intermission, and I take my leave, wandering further up the street, past another canal, and now I’m in a park. Here, among the green arms and wilting flowers, anxiety thrives. It's one of the few places where trees grow and flowers bloom, without nature herself having control. Here, she's a prisoner, hoping for help and waiting for showers. The sun's pulling herself over the orange roofs to the east, and a steady flow of sunlight falls on the inmate below. Good morning, I say as her rays fill my eyes. She’s stretching, warming up for a day of duties.
I continue my journey through the park to the road beyond. Once I reach it, the Sun's even higher, flooding the floor with her golden gaze. Through my watering lenses, I see humanity humming its way to work. Now, I'm in a place filled with more than curious cats, swimming soulmates, and paranoid parks. The old train station stands, watching on with his stained-glass eyes. He's counting the commuters as a conductor counts beats or stamps tickets. At the furthest end, another of his eyes has been shattered, leaving him with another blind spot. No wonder so many people get away with free rides.
There are faces here, some painted with new facades and others fading with fatigue. Among the pink and browns, the sky's studied symphonies return. But they’re different now, louder and more staccato. Hiding in a tree, a crow barks like a dog. On the ground pecking at a bag of last night’s kebab, seagulls wail like sirens. Even with all their noise, I might be the only one turning my head, the rest plough straight on, with their faces hung low, white buttons plugging their ears and dark glasses covering their eyes. Another day of work awaits, and although I’m not wearing sunglasses or sporting the white plugs, it waits for me too. I turn around and retrace my steps.
The park’s happier when I return, devouring its share of rainy rays. Each road is busier too, if not any happier. The smells of dawn are replaced by precious perfumes and the stuttering of engines. And the fluffy cat has swapped his sun-soaked steps for a secluded windowsill. Even the canals swap their faces, leaving their swift swimmers and steaming surfaces behind. Songs hang in the air, but now they fight for control against church bells, morning radios and delivery drivers. I feel a buzz in my pocket and pull out the cause. Today's first email... just as perplexing and mysterious as the morning. I have a meeting, I remind myself, then step off the street and through my door. My commute is over.
Love, Luke