The Practice of Everyday Life on Outer Drive

From your vantage point this city seems the most beautiful in the world and at the same time the most cruel of all. You stare at the street, its pattern of puddles, the discombobulated but strategic traffic; still, in reality, I'm eyeing you, your familiar constant songless stride, the silhouette of your presence in the late fall quiet spiky rain, the mark of time in the obnubilated light. I count your footsteps from a streetlight to the next, then again and yet again- their cadence matches the orientation of your thoughts. At the entryway, you leave your umbrella, hang your overcoat and candor and bring home the remains of the day. 

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Vastly unknown, the substance of his misery thickens by the hour. It reminded him of F meticulously checking for the best texture of her Béchamel. His misery had certainly reached its perfect thickening. Where are the lush meadows, the promise of lightness and ease, the incumbent joy of the seemingly free juvenile? He recollects and whispers to himself: " In time, the logic of each presence becomes evident" .

Peruse the old picture albums, leaf your collection of postcards, search on an on  the treasure box of yesteryear glitter, shine, and sparkle, tune into the kids' giggles at the sight of the rusty carousel. Looks like the real thing, except for the faded colors, the deafening sound of its toiled machinery, its hiccuping song, a symphony of stridence and discarded. 

On Outer Drive, there is no hymn of leaping spring. Only a modal joy and the silent movie of carefree summer.