Daily Commute

     Winter has claimed one more tree. It stands in a courtyard of stone. The branches devoid of leaves, hold instead, hundreds of crows calling all at once. The sun has yet to rise, and I am chilled to the bone by the morning air. I leave my apartment and walk through the square, stopping only to hand a wayward soul a cup of hot tea. I do this each day, hoping the tea will warm his belly, but wondering if I shall one day find him frozen and stiff. He never says a word, just grasps the cup between both of his hands, and blows a shivering breath across the top of the hot liquid. In the evening, when I return, he will be gone. I know not of where he goes, just that he will be sitting in the square each morning. I wonder if he speaks to anyone else. I wonder if he speaks to the crows, contemplating the meaning of their ceaseless calling.

     I walk to the corner to wait for my bus, stretching the hood of my coat up over my head, and pulling the drawstrings tight to escape the chilly air. I have no more thoughts of the man, or the crows, instead focusing my attention on the day ahead, and the many tasks I will need to complete. Stacks of orders on my desk await fulfillment. A new college term begins shortly, and texts will need to get out and shelved before weeks end. I work among books. It’s not a glamorous job, and can in fact be quite dull, but books feel like home to me. It is as though I am surrounded by friends. It’s a comfort, and it pays the bills. I can’t ask for more than that.

     The bus arrives, and I take my usual seat behind the driver with the greasy hair. She’s never well kept, and often smells of stale laundry, but she has a kind gaze, and welcomes me with a smile. Though it's early, the bus is full. Drowsy eyes stare down at phones and laptops, but rarely at each other, as the bus carries each of us to our destinations. My stop is the depository, about a twenty minute ride from where I board. The ride is quiet today, which I do not mind. It is an eerie quiet though, as if everyone has awoken from dark dreams this morning, keeping to themselves, giving sanctuary to their uneasy thoughts.

     I am daydreaming, thinking of Hawthorn, and the ease with which he could turn a phrase. Greatness flowed from his pen, and I am simultaneously envious and awestruck. Lost in my musings, I pull the cord signaling for the next stop. As I depart the bus, I step down and begin placing one foot in front of the other on a cobblestone pathway leading to the depository door. I enter the building and am stopped in my tracks. My heart palpitates, and I am flooded all at once by dreadful thoughts, long overdue. This place among the books, where I have spent my days, has created in me into a horrible creature. Toiling industriously each day, I have been useful, and dutiful; well suited for my position within these walls, morphing into a creature of habit. I have escaped becoming an artist of the beautiful, instead caging myself inside a prison of the practical.

     I feel a grievous aching throughout my bones. I close my eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. The crows feet are clearly and painfully visible around my eyes, as I breath in dead air. I am compelled to flee and can delay no longer. I fear my beating heart will cease its rhythm, leaving me without force to continue on. I think of the man in the stone courtyard, whom I bring a daily tea. It is his marvelous life which fills my imagination; a life animate with raw sensation and organic purpose. It is he I think of as I leave old ways behind, intent on bringing color to my dispirited existence. Walking from the depository, the bright hues of the risen sun glow amber and are full of flame. I am certain of only one thing: there is time still, enough to craft a beautiful life.