During the night,
I can already envision the early morning,
when the city breaks
and the sky overhead
begins shading over its stars
with lighter tones of blue paint.
Around seven, traffic will emerge
and carry on into the distance,
dad and I stuck in the left lane
while the bikers pass in a blur.
Up ahead, the buildings and sidewalks
will be brimming with people
shuffling along,
making up a solitary flowing crowd
of masked,
expressionless figures,
one that I will have to blend into.
In the room, the seats in the middle
are usually claimed first
so I go and sit up in the back
with my notebook open,
scratching and scribbling away,
filling up blank pages with my blank mind.
In a room full of people,
I am a nameless face in the crowd,
and it has become my conditioned
preference of a lifestyle.
On smooth buses jammed full,
and on sidewalks and through intersections
full of people always crossing
to the other side and back,
I am emerged in the movement,
and engulfed in the crowd.
I can envision it all playing out
in my head,
while laying on my bed
and staring at the ceiling
at one in the morning,
because all of it has already
happened before,
over and over and
over again.