Concrete Comfort

Concrete Comfort

As I press my upper body up from the ground, the uneven, grainy asphalt digs a constellation of pebbles into my palms, causing a painful pleasure that awakens my body. Between my fingers and the pavement I hear the crackle of a plastic wrapper from an almost empty pack of Marlboro Lights. I look around me, and see what seems to be the back of a strip mall: one-story shoebox stores, the rear end of a car repair shop, and a corner convenience store. It’s quiet. 

The early morning stillness allows me to hear the deep meditative humming of the wind blazing around the buildings in the Financial District further on the horizon. Everything is asleep. 

A white, empty plastic bag with faded red letters proudly dances with the wind over the grey streets, seemingly celebrating empty consumerism. As I try to get up, I become more aware of my body. The distant traces of once-bouncy curls sunken to the bottom. My dark tight pants and a cheap lace top, buttoned open halfway, less for show, more like leaving a backpack open on a train while dozing off, carelessly, thinking it holds no value. 

I wasn’t robbed of my cigarettes or phone, and it made me believe that whoever I hung out with the night before was too dumb and drunk themselves to even get the idea to steal. I had a feeling it had nothing to do with kindness.

I realized I could step back and see the situation clearly, and with that came a calm, a familiarity, like the scent of a t-shirt that’s been in the back of a closet for too long, not necessarily pleasant, but not foreign either. There was a certain simplicity here, like shattered glass on the floor: all you can do is begin with the big pieces. And with that, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes; and started picking myself off the ground. 

As I gather myself, the world turns dark, all of gravity leans left, I feel empty-headed, squeeze my eyes closed, and find myself lying down again. This time, the asphalt feels like clouds, and an extreme tiredness comes over me, causing me to yawn. As I open my eyes again I find myself covered up to my cheeks in bedsheets.

Hugged by flannel pillows, the world appears vertical as I see the rectangular light-blue wooden fireplace frame in a room surrounded by layers of comfort: cushions, sketches, and photos of joyful days with friends. Every hard edge hidden under objects that seemed to attempt to soften for life’s unforgiving sharpness. I’m home. 

I close my eyes again, still feeling her presence, and longing to get closer. For a moment, the daunting buildings on the horizon appear once more. I keep my eyes shut until the sensation fades, and I can no longer deny the dimension I truly inhabit. I let myself linger in my safe nest for a few more minutes, becoming aware of my relatively healthy body. The wind still races through the buildings in the financial district, yet now it might just as well be rushing through the fireplace in my small studio. 

As I slowly became aware of myself, I noticed how well I take care of this body. Hydrated, somewhat strong, nourished. Almost as if it belongs to someone else. I don’t usually notice this, don’t usually compare, but part of me can’t help seeing her, and part of me sees who I might have been. A sadness shades over me,  I have to leave her. And yet, in that recognition, there’s something that matters, something I feel deep down.

When I took the train to work, it was the hum of the train that reminded me of those massive towers humming, growling softly, like monsters that rule the city. I hear them underground too, howling, grunting, with the stopping and going of trains. The city’s breath, its perpetual threat, firmly reminding us of our insignificance, of our place in the world. I felt the asphalt pinching in my palms again and brought myself into her mind. Big pieces first. The subway seemed bare and exposed. Bright lights left no corner hidden, revealing everything. At every stop, new souls entered the train and old souls left. The humming and growling slowed my breath. The shuddering of the train relaxed my muscles, like a baby in a stroller, rocked gently by the uneven rhythm of the street.

I felt a sense of comfort in the subway today. Not every day, but today it seemed to me so honest.  With so little pretence or expectation, just an empty stretch of in-between-nothingness. It calmed me. 

It reminded me of where I found her. An environment stripped of every hue of warmth. Thick, unforgiving banks of white morning clouds, like the harsh lights of the metro, leaving nothing unexposed. And her, like the plastic bag caught in the wind, a day later, now with dirty footprints on it, stuck somewhere in the gutter. And yet, finding comfort in the familiarity of it all, a familiarity in survival. Not for a moment expecting to be saved or helped. As the train rocked beneath me, I pulled the bag on my lap closer and felt my own sense of worth vibrate through me with the motion. It wasn’t about how humans measure value, and certainly not something easily caught with the human eye. But stripped of anything else, easier to see. Something all humans shared, something earned, something that earned them a right on earth. Strength.