Simple Sagebrush #7
There are the moments where you can envision the options sitting in front of you. Practically see them happening. Imagine in the part of your brain that fills the fuzzy area between fantasy and reality.
Every day, I see myself plummeting to the bottom. Every day, I step back and tell myself it's not going to happen. I'm one of the very few that actually take the stairs every day- the elevators, while much more crowded, serve the coffee-sipping, newspaper-reading masses much more effectively. Walking up this many stairs would spill the coffee all over their financial sections, and that would be a shame.
So each morning, I walk up the stairs. I try to put spring in my step- the comforting regularity of each step, curving just a bit at the edges, taking me closer and closer to the day. The wood has been worn smooth from decades of hands steadying themselves and there is a distinct wear pattern where feet landed, step after step, on the carefully carved wood. These stairs tell the story of hundreds of thousands that have come before me.
Anymore, they're practically ignored. I like the loneliness. The few minutes to commune with myself and those that took the stairs before me. I use those three minutes to convince myself that this day will be different. This day I will enjoy the job. This day I will tell him hello. This day I will forget the airline bottle of vodka in my bag.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I stand there. I look down. I can practically feel myself taking two steps forward, and- whoops- missed the step. My muscles clench as if I were trying to catch myself. I close my eyes right as I would hit. And I tell myself not today.
This repeats, in reverse, at 5pm every day. Today, though, the alarm went off. The elevators closed. Everyone is walking, slowly, down my stairs. They're not appreciating them for what they are, but the security guards yelling at us to get out probably have something to do with that. I am not moving. I am standing at the top of the stairs.
Could I do this to my stairs? Could I place the image of my broken body in the minds of everyone on these stairs? Would they appreciate them more? Or avoid them even more fastidiously? I take a step forward, looking directly down. Time is repeating in circles and moving forward at the same time. And so few appreciate it. One more day. One more step. I see both choices, but I can't see the end of either story.
Perhaps tomorrow.
Every day, I see myself plummeting to the bottom. Every day, I step back and tell myself it's not going to happen. I'm one of the very few that actually take the stairs every day- the elevators, while much more crowded, serve the coffee-sipping, newspaper-reading masses much more effectively. Walking up this many stairs would spill the coffee all over their financial sections, and that would be a shame.
So each morning, I walk up the stairs. I try to put spring in my step- the comforting regularity of each step, curving just a bit at the edges, taking me closer and closer to the day. The wood has been worn smooth from decades of hands steadying themselves and there is a distinct wear pattern where feet landed, step after step, on the carefully carved wood. These stairs tell the story of hundreds of thousands that have come before me.
Anymore, they're practically ignored. I like the loneliness. The few minutes to commune with myself and those that took the stairs before me. I use those three minutes to convince myself that this day will be different. This day I will enjoy the job. This day I will tell him hello. This day I will forget the airline bottle of vodka in my bag.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I stand there. I look down. I can practically feel myself taking two steps forward, and- whoops- missed the step. My muscles clench as if I were trying to catch myself. I close my eyes right as I would hit. And I tell myself not today.
This repeats, in reverse, at 5pm every day. Today, though, the alarm went off. The elevators closed. Everyone is walking, slowly, down my stairs. They're not appreciating them for what they are, but the security guards yelling at us to get out probably have something to do with that. I am not moving. I am standing at the top of the stairs.
Could I do this to my stairs? Could I place the image of my broken body in the minds of everyone on these stairs? Would they appreciate them more? Or avoid them even more fastidiously? I take a step forward, looking directly down. Time is repeating in circles and moving forward at the same time. And so few appreciate it. One more day. One more step. I see both choices, but I can't see the end of either story.
Perhaps tomorrow.
posted by Andrea at 3:47 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home