‘Cause tramps like us

Speaking to a friend today who’d recently quit her job not a week or so ago – she mentioned how unexpectedly delightful her newfound freedom felt. Her eyes shone mirth and a sense of adventure. She spoke of the frenzy of self-motivated activity that had been her introduction into days that were not predetermined by a contract.

She was visiting the northern city and I was having my lunch break. Sitting in that garden café I went for my shirtsleeves to ease the remnants of the summer heat, and she, noticing my clumsiness, rolled them up for me in pristine folds. Now I, liberated from my shirtly constraints, was happy for her that she was held back only by the heaviness of her purpose.

And glancing at my watch I smiled, thinking—what luxury it is to have space. We people live in small domains: apartments in big cities, little corners of the urban jungle exploding around us with sirens and lights and entertainment. Our little quotidian peace and quiet is a comforting prison—a residence, a suit and tie, an occupation—a haven in this nightmarish theme park that insists deep into the night with disjointed laughter. To rend asunder this pretense of necessity is to embrace the limits of the night. But what then?

We spoke of those next steps with conspiratorial air. And it was fitting that the shadows of a crooked tree sheltered our figures and their getaway plans from prying doubts.