Zig zagging cracks ingrained in the sidewalk, empty 16 ounce soda bottles littered along, and a mob of people sweep by on their way home from work. Each individual, of course, has a unique stature but they all represent the hustle of the city. Grinding from work and on to the next duty of the day: exercise, cooking dinner, or the next money-maker. It was apparent as I strolled through Philadelphia yesterday evening. It was different from what I use to remember, or I’m just aware as an outsider now.
A few months ago, I’d dart out of my office glass doors, with my black messenger bag over my right shoulder, soft lunch cooler in my left hand, and earbuds plugged in tightly. I’d gaze around on my stroll to the train, but I was more fixated on reaching a destination than engaging in a sight seeing tour. It was the work grind–race through the day to reach the next one: a vicious constant cycle that man faces.
It’s everywhere, though, but just more visible in a city. With that, I sensed a devoid of tranquility. There’s minimal green space but an abundance of grey exterior. As I spend more and more of my time outside of the city’s outer walls, I favor my position: less people, less noise, more nature, more serenity.
I almost feel as if I have become hypersensitive to the energy confined in the urban areas. There’s additional tension and an aroma of captivity to the work world. I’m straddling on the fine line of my reentrance to this world again–one I’m not looking forward to.
At the moment, I’m unable to devise an arrangement to forestall my reappearance. It’s almost as if fate will have it, and I’ll be wedged in with the masses once again. The clock is ticking towards that day, and furthermore, the real foe is revealed–not the masses or the deplored jobs, but merely, time.