Writing Journal 10/01/18

I can always turn left, or even turn back. But as long as I’m moving, I may as well move forward. The sidewalk shifts and changes as heads bob and weave, trying to look busy before the day is even started, trying to check their reflection in every shiny surface while gauging those around them and measuring their worth in comparison. Men smoothing palms over buttoned suits and flashy ties, women millimetres away from tripping over each other’s click clack heels. I look like them but I feel more at home when the sidewalks are filled with a city’s silence and dark pockets grow between street lamps and headlights.
I let momentum carry me until I can see glimpses of my building and its glass doors. I pick my way through the crowd and as I pop out the side a soul sucking anxiety moves through me and leaves, falling back in step with the rush behind me. Two steps ahead of me the glass doors open with a wet slurp, like pulling a plug from the sink. I lift my foot to take a step but I can’t put it down. I can’t turn left now, or even turn back. I definitely can’t turn back. But as long as I’m standing here, why not stay?

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