The rain came. Pounding kept the quiet away to run down the slopes of rooftops and cascade over the edges. The water pools quickly from a splash to a wave and soon it’s knee-deep and we’re panicking. The streets are like rivers and their currents carry papers and lost shoes like they’re debris; nothing more than the bits in the water of a disaster scene.
This was the forecast, but where are the buses? Where was the evacuation? Why am I awake and watching all of this occur when I should have safely escaped to wait on the other side of this waiting for the magic of elves making shoes to greet me in the morning?
Why is their no dust in my eyes? No herd of sheep to hop alongside towards pastures of blissful escape? On my side, back, or stomach I fail to slip in to the traffic of unconscious dreaming that this series of lanes is reserved for. I’m playing the game of drawing markers in the dark and rapidly losing yards. Panicking, I know that time and inches are running out on salvaging this and assembling anything resembling a night. If it comes this second I’ll get 6 hours …..5 hours ……4…….3…..
At a table and under its umbrella she sits. Her eyes, large and staring at nothing, don’t blink or register the people around her. To her mouth her closed hand is raised lead by the fingernail of her thumb. Jagged and short, its been worked over by stress and nerves that bring her teeth and nails together in unholy and improper matrimony. No effort to make it stop has been executed quite as well as the designs saved to her laptop. The product of hours of sleepless nights and frustrated restarts, her designs are brilliant and poised to astound investors in to supporting her teams project. This was unlike anything she had ever been involved with in a capacity that, as she was realizing now, was changing and moving her towards things she had never fully believed would come. Not a cyclist or patron making a purchase could see the way she felt or had changed, and the feeling ran through her like blood charged with something extra. It didn’t feel exciting or daunting, but instead felt like responsibility. Responsibility that felt for the first-time like confidence.
I would like to visit Berlin, she thought, and stare out the window of a hotel room at it like I was in a movie. I’d paint the room dim and dramatic to feed in to the experience, and I would like to work there and maybe even live. I would like to scan the skyline and find a spot that speaks to me without words but in cords and sopranos. I will take a picture of that spot and then make it my purpose to nestle a structure of my design in it. Columns, arches, floors laid out as perfectly as I can sketch them, all of it assembled to reach up from the earth and towards the sky. I will then recapture the new horizon and my contribution to it so I can hang it on my wall.
The sun, an orange disk, dove in to the vermilion and apricot sea of fiery ink painted across the sky. It may have been closed at this hour but the bakery still provided tables and their umbrellas to tired feet or young women blissful from success. There she re-took her seat from the morning and drew a sketchpad from her bag along with regular and coloring-pencils. To the aurora of scarlet and marigold she wished to bid farewell to the day without concrete dreams or blueprints for the future, and instead created freely images of joy and innocence just for herself.