My city is hurting, but seeing a politician’s (or a bureaucrat’s) car stuck with you in the damning traffic that you endure everyday, provides you with a very weird sadistic pleasure.
My city is hurting. And after a while, it ebbs — the pleasure — it is transient. A hundred and forty-five minutes in bumper-to-bumper traffic is something you wouldn’t wish on your enemies. For Only Thirteen Kilometres, No way! But a politician? A bureaucrat? I’d think twice. Thrice. Four times. And more. After all, I have nothing else to do while harsh red brake LEDs imprint a permanent glow in my eyes. I resist, I relent, I don’t wish this on anyone.
My city is hurting. I sense the groan of the roads and streets that take me to work and back. I wish them peace. I wish God-speed to all morose vehicles who once looked beautiful in adverts. I wish them the existence they deserve.
My city is hurting. Reality has been sidelined. The cost of progress is what we are paying for. The most volatile currency in these times is time itself. And it is at a premium. Yet we have ample time for divisive politics. To read about it, to forward arguments in favour of regionalism. We have time to remind our recipients to read emails in favour of regional protectionism.
My city is hurting. There is a tear in the fabric, and thread I have none.