I feel a cold coming on.
What is it about winter that makes people even more impersonal than they already are? Walking down the street is like being in a zombie movie. Passersby stare to the ground and ignore the noisy, chilling world around them. We are afraid to look one another in the face, and even when we do it seems to be from malice and not friendship.
If I successfully smile at one person, and receive that smile back, my day will have been brighter for it. Instead we trudge along, only shocked by the honking of cars or pounding of jackhammers. Even those things don’t seem to hold our attention.
The sky is gray and it makes me gloomy. For no particular reason other than it feels good to be gloomy. It feels good to pretend like the world is on my shoulders, and that the sight of me would raise the greatest empathy in a person. Give me your pity, dark world, for you did this. You made me enjoy this despondency I feel.
Why else would dogs, who live in our houses and on our sidewalks, choose to run free in the park if given the choice? Their nature is exactly that: Nature. They eat the grass and roll in the dirt and shit on the flowers. They don’t shit on the concrete. They find the square of land that has been broken from the concrete and they shit there. And then they eat the grass that grows from it.
I hit a possum on the way to the airport today. I thought it was a suitcase until I saw its face twisting in pain from the previous car’s infliction, only for the split second before I rolled over it in it my steel killing machine. I felt its head hit the undercarriage, and could only hope that was its last moment of consciousness. I will dream about that tonight. (I dreamt about he apocolypse).
I parked in the cell phone lot and waited, dog in the backseat. I grabbed her for a quick stroll, and we found the saddest patch of dirt ever to grace the Earth’s surface. It was soft and full of weeds, and I realized that someone had actually landscaped it recently with fresh woodchips. I mean, why bother? The dog enjoyed the forgiving ground, sure, and shit on it of course. But who are we kidding by keeping two sad trees and some shrubs alive by a busy polluted freeway to a busier, more polluted airport. Run over the poor things, already, put them out of their misery.
A plane flew overhead at an arms reach, its deafening roar allowing pause. “These poor trees,” I thought, ears ringing. Out of fear the dog took off for the road, thankfully constrained by her leash, and we ran back to my car and cowered in its homicidal body, waiting for the phone to ring.
