The Worn Path

A man wheezes, coughs a few times, and falls to the cement, a trickle of blood from his mouth. He is dead. I guess that's what they call, "Life in the Big City." City of death, that's all this is to most people. A city ripe with pestilence and decay. The plentiful jobs are what bring people here. Millions of them, people and jobs. Neither of them are particularly pleasant; mostly either office jobs or unskilled labor with pale office-types and grimey laborers to work them. I guess you have to make a living somehow. This is as bad as any, but for some, it's all they can get. I'm lucky, my art keeps me going. I guess there are enough people in this place that like bad dupes to support a guy like me. But money isn't the reason I'm still in this wretched city. Oh no, not me good sir. I'm here for an entirely different reason. I fall in stride with the surging mass of people; a veritable river of fleshy faces suround me but I pay them no mind. I've walked this way a thousand times before. I've seen these people a thousand times before. Even though I can but see a few square feet of sidewalk immediately around me I know exactly where I am. The tall stately buildings are very familiar and now and then I see a street sign jutting out from the sea of persons. It's all too regular and habitual for my tastes, but this is the route that passes that one certain cafe that interests me so. True, I could avoid this whole ritual all together, but the hopelesness of my situation will never quite sink in. No it never will. No matter how many thousands of more times I re-enact this pathetic little play of mine; I will never fully realize that it is all in vain. I am all but doomed to play out this scene for the rest of my life. All for the hope, that little shimmer of hope, that one day I may have the courage to open that door and walk on through

Every time I near this corner I begin to feel dizzy. I'm sure there's nothing intrinsically strange about the corner itself. I believe it's just that this corner marks the spot where it happened. That one day six months ago. Is that all it's been? It seems like an eternity. Sixth months ago last wednesday. It could have happened to anybody. Completely random. But it's kept me in this foul city since then. I suppose it must be some sort of nostalgic effect that this corner produces. Perhaps.

Ah, here it is, the little Italian cafe. Is today the day?! Will I finally go inside, or am I destined to watch from across the street like some child staring through the glass at sweets he cannot have. That painful longing desire for the unattainable returns to me like a faithful dog. Damn you! Leave me be! No, sadly it is already clear that I will not progress today. Not this fine August afternoon. Maybe tomorrow? Possibly. Doubtfully though. I see a pattern but refuse to aknowledge it's validity. Stupid stubborn man...that's all I am. Regardless, I assume my position on the bench across the street and proceed to read the daily newspaper. I say "read" but really it's just a cover. An excuse for sitting in that spot on a daily basis.

I watch intently but see very little at all. It's disheartening. Sometimes days go by without even a glimpse of flowing chestnut hair or vanilla skin. "Patience is a virtue," they say. They're wrong. Patience is a curse. I fear I'm cursed to sit here forever. Never acting, always watching. Running over this same old hypothetical situation in my mind. The situation where I actually get off this bench and cross the street. The situation where I walk through those doors and greet my destiny, be it good or bad, with a open heart and a cheerful smile. The ruts in the paths of my mind are worn miles deep from running through this over and over. I've played through every scenario that my deranged psyche can conjure up. Every little contingency that may come into play if and when I make that move. Oh the path is worn. I know it well.