Imagine...

You walk in the city to be alone amongst people, to watch the world, your home.

Downtown, the faces of empirical buildings leer gray reflections of a coming storm, wayward mists mocked in solid geometry. The sidewalks are littered with newspaper stands - Corruption in UN / Famine in Africa / Starlet Arrested. So, all is normal.

Shop windows along the street have already rotated seasons; plaid scarves and wool coats cling to the curves of cream-colored manikins. “The fabric of our lives...” you hear your mind sing, without glancing at the cotton models hovering above State and Wabash. 

A pair of pink earmuffs double as headphones in the gleaming white tech store, and a pulsing runway rhythm pours from within. You find your feet hitting the concrete in time with the beat, and you shuffle in triple to escape. You want to be free from the trap, from the constant suggestions filtering through.

Long cries pierce the windy avenue, emanating from a small girl with doll in matching blue pinafore. The child offsets her body to pull a scowling mother back into the American Girl skyscraper. Her mother relents to the tantrum and the heavy door swings shut, wafting the warmth of cupcakes behind.

They’ve really got us. You continue to walk, crestfallen. The melancholy is common, it creeps in when your mind has no immediate obligation. It always seems to bring with it the sense that ‘This is it. The best part of the day, of our lives. Then dinner. Then bed.’ And sharp on the heels of the glumness is guilt, for this really is it, the Pinnacle of privilege. You have the leisure to question the meanings of things, and the pocket money to have a cupcake too.

You enter a grocery store to find some dinner. The soup isle is mesmerizing. Rows of red and orange cans, so easy, so cylindrical. Just grab one and go. The produce is being misted, fresh, too perfect. You pick up a tangerine. The sticker says it has been shipped from Florida. You put it back. When you lift your fingers you find them shimmering and orange-scented. You touch the tangerine again – they are covered in something glittering and unnatural! The cabbage, the tomatoes, the carrots – have they all been painted? Your stomach churns, disgusted by illusion. Nothing here is natural! You run.