Breathing
The sun whispered through morning clouds, separating darkness from light, sifting gold from grain-grey, and I breathed.
Nameless faces on the morning train with dog-eared books and finger-stained newspapers, sitting expressionless and speechless.
Another train clattered by on a neighbouring track, and on the glass of a window, I caught a reflection - bright blue sky with great dollops of white. A whole world in each window framed in dusty metal, zipping by at its own speed in its own direction.
When I walk, I can sometimes hear the secret tinkle as shards of shattered self hit the ground. Perhaps someone will come by later and collect them. But, still, I breathe.
17 July 2002, Wednesday, 9:24 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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