007Alive
Sitting in an alcove halfway up a wall, about two metres off the ground. The night would be pleasantly dark if not for the blaring lights in the hotel lobby across the road, and the neon signs pushing their way emotionlessly up every second building.
People give odd looks as they walk past, or hide a chuckle of surprise, or point unsubtly while whispering to their friends.
Most just walk on though, seeming not to notice or not care. People see what they expect to see.
There's a music show on tonight, and a group of friends getting dinner together two or three streets away. There's a camera sitting on a desk in a large, bright room that always sounds of air conditioners and echoes and denial.
There's a crime nestled in a pounding heart, sitting dormant and quiet like rot (rot, which eats away the old so the new can grow). That crime lies out bare, almost in the open, written in words like these under the guise of being something else.
There's not much traffic yet, at this time of night. The earlier rush is done, and the later one is still a few hours away. Streets lie relatively open, mostly devoid of vehicles.
It would almost be safe to wander without caring, without looking. Almost.
The air is cold, growing slowly colder. The concrete is worse, hard and chill and dirty. It doesn't matter. The alcove gives a good view. Seperate from the world, observing, barely observed.
Has anyone else ever sat here, had this view? Probably, but not this exact one. Not on this night, with these stars and these neon lights and these intermittently passing cars.
Someone tilts their head and smiles as they walk past. It slides away for a moment, but then reappears a touch wider when the smile is returned. They walk on.
There's a music show on tonight. There's a lot of music shows on tonight, probably. There's a lot of people going to them, tonight. There's a lot of people tonight. There's just a lot, tonight.
There's always a lot. It's better than nothing. It's possible to get used to a lot, and then learn to enjoy it again. It just takes time.
Shallow grazes burn on palms, the cost of being two metres up the wall. The sensation contrasts with the air, and the concrete. It compliments the blaze of neon lights, and the flushed warmth of rot spreading through a pounding heart.
It feels like being angry. It feels like being comfortably alone, at last. It feels like selfish loyalty and hope and the careful omission of a particular word.
In a concrete alcove, halfway up a wall, in the middle of the night, rotten under streetlights, cold and alone and not feeling either of those things,
It feels like being alive.