Books, and words as a whole, take one away from where they are but not always where they necessarily where they want to be. That’s the power of well crafted language… it can work to alter reality in mysterious ways…
She gripped the yellowing pages in her hand so tightly it almost hurt. It was the way she dealt with the rust of people flowing up and down the steps in and out of the station as the ascended the steps confronting her again. Her bag slung over her shoulder bounced in time with the gate of her step as she dashed up the stairs two at a time in time to the music resonating in her head ascending to street level and the gray of light at the exit.
It was the words, moreso than anything else, that motivated her timing, her pace, her inner being. It was words that haunted her. It was the texts in her pocket that were it. And yet, her phone remained silent this morning. what did that mean?
She hit the top step and veered right, fighting her way though the crowd. A black hoodie shielded her face from those around her and she made for the corner in her own little world among the hustle and bustle of the city. It makes her feel shielded from the rat race, separating her though the seemingly thin cotton and wisps of hair framing her face. Making no attempt at brushing them back she forges forward as her feet shuffle along through the crowd.
Whatever solace she found on her ride with her nose buried among the pages of the text in was being diminished with each step she took and every ounce of her being was being spent not dipping into her pocket to look for a message on her phone that probably was not there. As she crossed through the crosswalk she spun northward without thinking of it, simply keeping time with the rhythms setting the tone to her daily commute. Each concrete block at her feet, each building her eyes caught notice of, each cross-town breeze that