Morning, Carol

It is 6:35 AM on a calm Tuesday morning. A certain dirty yellow cab pulls up in front of the Carol Park. Both traffic lights busted, the driver unaware of the upcoming ticket he’ll receive. Out of the cab a creature, for it is unfair to call her otherwise, of quintessential poise steps out and sits in place for what seems to be like a second in the minds of other ,presumably similar, inhabitants of the nearby concrete matchboxes, but in her mind it was like a vast eternity of time swirls allowing her to analyze the park up to the smallest new juncture. What was new from yesterday, new trash on the ground, the garbage men were always late and didn’t care in the slightest, yet another kids games written in chalk along the footpath and of course, the early runners fluttering about, making her feel quite irritated. “Why would anyone come here to run in the morning?” she would always ask herself. “Way selfish people, like there’s someone here to impress.” She’d let out a monstrous sigh and give runners approaching her a stare similar to the likes of a quasar found billions of light years away. More luminous than galaxies, observable by the naked eye and most importantly, hiding a hungry for energy core. Eventually she’d start her descending ritual towards the bottom of the park. About 1000 stairs lay before her. The park was small, the main attraction being the famous stairs that would transcend the people from one spectrum of the city to another. Luscious green vegetation surrounding the mightiness of the stairs, an imposing mausoleum directly behind in remembrance of sacrificing soldiers as if to protect the existence bellow and complete indispensable silence . Even people seemed to agree and respect this setting. It was quite an unearthly sight from the top.

Carefully tapping on each perfectly sculpted concrete steps, she’d look down and think, contemplate. This was the only time she could do such pondering. Knowing the merely risen sun was behind her gave her security. Like nothing could break this moment she was having, every morning. Nothing could break her illusion. She’d begin to hum whatever piece she heard the night before. Satie’s Gymnopédie was following her footsteps and it seemed to make perfect sense. Life was like that piece, slow tempo and melancholy inducing when assimilated. Now was the time she began, usually, to talk to herself. Therapeutic they say. Maybe for the ones who already lost a portion of their mental capabilities. But who would listen to her if not herself? You are your best and worst critic, they also say. Who could answer her questions? The same answer couldn't coincide. How do you actually stop feeling lost? Who knows. She refused to ask people about it. She didn't believe anyone, in fact, knew the answer. Once you begin the be self-aware of your existence everything changes. Everything you begin to question. Anyone could willfully be lying. How can you tell? Trust? Trust is a trick. A trick your own mind plays on you to make you feel more serene, tranquil. Easily exploitable by others. A ground basis for conceding. A playing-ground for blaming to ease your own ethics. We settle for less only to stop looking.

The slightest occurrence can trigger the mind worms. Nobody can escape the mind worms.