My son laughed at the boy in the blue Mercedes, riding along with his foot stuck through the window. I was distracted by something further down. I'd been contemplating all day the loss of color in my world; industry has dipped the trees and my imagination in a toxic sludge of ancient acetone. The trees today looked faded. It's a clear day; I should have been able to see the other side of the valley, beyond that to the foothills, the air sharp and hot. Instead, a gray pall hung limply over everything. I had to keep my eyes on the pavement to not feel robbed of the sky.
Maybe it was because I was viewing the world through a gray mist that the butterfly caught me off gaurd. The image was sad; a monarch trapped by gravity and wind, at the mercy of the great rolling metal beasts that growled their way down Parkcenter Boulevard. The burst of color suprised me so much, though that the world suddenly seemed a little livelier. Perhaps it was just in comparison; my life may be gray but I'm not about to be quashed by rubber and concrete.
I wished in that moment, as I have many times, that I had the touch of an artist. The image of orange and black natural delicacy at the mercy of grey and black industrial monstrosity is something I would love to share. So I do it by the only means open to me; through words.
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