By Will Daniels

7:30 wake up.

The curtains on my bedroom window are ajar, the cold, stark light pouring on my face, illuminating my white-yellowish pillow. Everything seems so cold. The walls, painted a cool baby blue, reflect the darting and fleeting sunlight seeping through the dead branches, shifting and shaking in the chilled breeze outside. Under the four layers of my comforter, blanket, sheets, and hoodie I don, I’m still cold.

I hate this time of year. it’s always cold and wet and gross, and after that short euphoric period after a light snowfall, it always turns to crap.

I force myself out of bed, my weighted blanket tempting me like the serpent in the Garden of Eden, just a little less dire. My feet hit the cold floor, the linoleum meeting me somewhat gracefully, a shiver being sent up my spine.

I take hold of the frigid shower handle, its polished surface reflecting the walls around me, and turn it 90 degrees to the right. I wait as the water rushes over me, the temperature going from uncomfortably cool to warm. I’m engulfed by the water, feeling like I’m sinking into a warm pile of freshly dried laundry. I almost forget to even wash, I just get lost in thought, but I should, so I go through the motions. It’s moments like these that push me out of bed, but it really is just one heaven to another, so I’m not exactly making strides here. There are only so many job interviews I can go to without an offer. Maybe number 72 will be different.

7:50

I should speed this up. Sluggishly but with some pace, I find myself in the kitchen eating a banana with peanut butter and Nutella. I know it isn’t exactly a full food wheel, but whatever, it’s my breakfast.

8:00

The sun has fully risen by this point, illuminating the clouds in a depressing, even grey tone. No beautiful shadows to admire, no warmth from the sun, nothing–might as well be in black and white.

We’ve hit that time of winter when there’s a chance of rain, and it’s hit. Last night, it poured out, so the slush hit. God dammit. Now I have to trot through the mush and slush–yay, I can’t wait.

My eyes meet my own in my floor-length bedroom mirror as I read my body. What to wear, what to wear? Does it really matter? I always wear the same combination of the same few items, mostly consisting of monochromatic t-shirts and jeans. Do people judge my clothes, or do they go through the motions of life in the same monotonous, thoughtless way I do? I guess I’ll just stick to the same old, same old.

I slip on my beige Timberland boots and furnish my shoulders with the same black jacket I’ve had since high school. I look back to my counter, where my cotton gloves and beanie sit like a Victorian still life. I don’t need them. Hand in pockets, hood on head, I slip out of my dwelling with the same carefree cadence I’ve had for years. The elevator never comes faster than I can walk it in the morning, so I rush, step after step down the flights of stairs.

The slightly yellow-tinted glass-block windows that follow the stairway shine a much-needed warmth onto the slate gray steps and industrial yellow rails. The light coming in and out is bent, different from each side. I see distortions of the street below, making the slush-filled streets just a little more tolerable. From the outside, all they can see is my figure descending each and every floor, my silhouetted outfit moving with a consistent pace.

I wish they would turn off the blue-white industrial lights that cake the walls with medical-grade rays of LED. I much prefer the illusionary warmth of those blocks of ice, which are always different in their reflections that bounce off my surroundings. I enjoy it in the fall, especially when the moving leaves and branches animate the sunshine that hits me.

I reach the ground floor, already seeing the traces of mud from the commuters before me. Could have some decency and just use the mat they walk over without a care in the world? I mistakenly make eye contact with the overly talkative receptionist, who loves a good long chat at 8:30 in the morning.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, sir! Did you see the new project they’re building on-”

I’m out the door.

Dammit, I was right; the sludge is up to the leather stitched brim of my boots. This should be fun. I follow the pink salted pathway to the sidewalk, the crystals crunching under each step. The air bites at my face as I glide, the wind picking up as I reveal my person to the unrestricted flow of wind. I squint as the remaining snow reflects the light, opting to intermittently open and close each eye. It’s a fleeting effort, but who’s going to wear sunglasses in the winter? 

A dog, a golden retriever, pink booties on each paw, grinning ear to ear, passes me. I wonder if he has the same discrepancies as I do. It doesn’t look like it. He looks like he doesn’t care about his appearance or the cold or his responsibilities or the way he finds his place in the world. I hope I’ll get to that point one day, but who knows? 

Slosh slosh, the melted and drained combination of mud and snow mould to the shape of my boots. The cuffs of my khakis are already soaked, the rest of my pants soon to follow. My Timberland boots aren’t exactly airtight; I can feel the iciness encroach on my wool socks.

I approach my bus stop, the steel pole with routes stapled on it covered in a thin layer of frost. The watch on my left wrist ticks on, almost taunting me. Do I just go, walk all the way to the subway? It would take less time if the bus doesn’t get here in the next 10 or 15. If I’m late again, I’m screwed. I look around me, only to find myself solitarily waiting, no one to share this common burden with me. I should have left earlier.

I put in my earbuds, hoping to find some solace in the music that brings warmth to me, only to find them dead. Socks wet, pants soaked, earbuds dead, I stand alone waiting for a bus I have no confidence in coming.

As I turn my head to observe, all I see is the parking lot across from me, half the cars with no tires or smashed windows, the old used car sale looking the same as it ever has. The sidewalks are barely usable, the pathways limited to single-file use. Why did I choose to move here, to this capitalist hellscape suburban-ish neighbourhood?

Screw it! I’ll just walk.

Step after step, I wonder if I made the right choice. I part the slush like the Red Sea as I trot my way through the half-visible, slightly salted path. Sweat begins to build up under my layers of cotton and polyester, adding more and more friction to my already uncomfortable wardrobe. I hear that dreaded sound, one I wish I never would hear: the sound of tires splitting salt and a 12-cylinder diesel engine chugging gasoline. I take in he smell of fossil fuel being coughed out, the blue of the emergency lights bouncing off the remaining snow.

The bus passes me, the warm glow of the cigarette-stained windows seeming inviting.

I should have just waited.