a spy in the house of descriptions

It is chilly out here, but I don’t want you to think that it is at all bothersome, because it’s not. There is a slight sting sent from the cold, laced metal, which I’m sitting on to my senses, but that too is not unwelcome. I can even feel the air in my nose, it prickles a bit because of the cold, but it’s crisp and light, and I like it.

The scents in the air aren’t as pungent as the feeling of the air itself but I can just make out the smell of moisture, damp brick (which really is very different from moisture alone, I promise), and my fading vanilla perfume (just passing through).

A loud resounding and obnoxious voice will boom out at random; but just as soon as it comes, the cooing breeze (a breeze that I cannot feel for the air down here is still as iced water) sweeps it away again. There is the lulling pitter-patter sound of slow-falling water drops; and there are birds chirping politely and the soft sound of their fluttering wings, but my ears hear them in stillness.

I am surrounded on all sides, except for above which opens to the heavy gray sky, by stories-high concrete and brick. I do not feel enclosed. There are windows all around me as well, each exhibiting yellow-warm and cookie-doe-sweet light and smiling faces. The warmness contrasts greatly against the stony, cold, and muted grays and blues of my space, but I don’t feel unprivileged and I don’t regret my place. I do not feel like the orphan looking in with hungry eyes, but more like the traveler just passing through.

I am a lone human in this secluded area, but I’m not alone: the birds are here, and there are plants growing in the cracks between the bricks beneath my feet; and I feel whole and weightless.