THE THICK of the night seems to have crawled its way to the same territory. Each street holds familiar remnants from the same afternoon of brief encounters; a mere redirection to the next path.
The morning rush appears to be kinder; the roads filled with dreams and ambition, each footstep signaling anticipation. But by the time evening comes, the same pulse turns into a deep sigh.
Soon, the stretch of the day tightens and the city warps all passing moments.
Despite drowning in muffled noises and busy sidewalks, somehow, the evening glooms with silence. The street lights flicker, mimicking the unspoken exhaustion that leaves no chance for a quick exhale.
The demands of the day start to sink in and the morning rush starts to wear off. Each stride taken gets weaker than the previous one – as if slowly dissolving into a total collapse.
Maybe this is what happens after 7 p.m. The breeze weighs heavier, the route appears to be boundless, and the only thing keeping us moving is the unwavering thought of rest.
Maybe this lingering thought is the only way to escape the chaos where for a moment, the crowd will blur and time will cease to exist.
A momentary relief.
A temporary self-promise.
As the night ends, the restless learns of tomorrow. Then the cycle begins once more.
After all, we are but a small fragment of a larger space, trying to grasp a sense of stability in between the hustle that will eventually lead us back to the start – back home.
It may not be much, but for now, trying is enough. F
