Descent

Air rests uneasy in my ribcage, a lingering malaise. The tradewinds have stopped blowing and its uphill as we climb the blue earth north.

A routine malaise; now, now the hard part starts. The streets grow in familiarity each day. Stretches of land bear the same greedy faces, day after day. The novelty wears off and death resumes. Distance takes upon itself the role of the butcher, the executioner, dispensing with your time, your hours and minutes, spent traveling, waiting, as new objects of stress present themselves like the teeth of a cogwheel, always circular, always turning, foreboding and commanding, ad infinitum.

You hear yourself getting lost to the marching step. The work song takes over, as the varnish fades from street names. The walk home weighs down, heavy - no longer an adventure. Here's were Huron cuts off for a block, meets up with Maitland and Regent, swings and curves and reappears up ahead. As the road curves, underneath is a trough, a miniature valley, that might have previously laid under the running waters of a tributary. The ground slopes steeply past the iron guard that wards off stray cars from wayward steering. A moments hesitation is killed off by the desire to stave off routine momentarily. Jump over the fence and step deep into the snow. Now it gets steep and you hold onto fallen trees and branches, slowly inching your way down. Now the trail stops, but Nico urges you down further. Wait you find a better route, here! Let's go! Reminded of Japhy Ryder's wise words, you let go of fear and crash and yell downwards. Few seconds later you're at the bottom, triumphant looking up at the curve of the road, shoes and pants wet up to your knees from the snow - this was great! - a red letter day.