6/11/2014

I took a different route to work, one determined less by adventurousness than by impatience:  The timing of the lights had me turn right prematurely, and into Morningside Heights I went.  The sky was gray, and it was held in suspension.  It seemed like it could remain forever, in that almost raining state, its neutral the sky's final resting point after several million years of meteorology, equilibrium finally reached.  I was greatly moved by this idea, embraced the ceaselessness.  Morningside Park seemed the perfect place to pass the impending eternity.  The scene was timeless:  The green of its oaks clashed somberly with the silver backdrop.  The steep slopes that ran down the center of the park, separating east from west, adorned with crumbling concrete stairs, they seemed a beautiful staging ground for some Sisyphean reality.  I poured my sunscreen down a storm drain and tore the skin off my umbrella.  I planted its skeleton like a Christmas tree, a monument to the simcolor sky.  I stood there for an eon, admiring my work, until gravity intervened.  The raindrops began to fall.  I wanted to be angry but I wasn't.  I recognized my eternity for what it was.  I have spent just enough time missing home that I can now imagine missing here.