The buzz is stimulating, perhaps too much so. Their characteristics a smorgousboard of much and many - worth thousands of words combined; long minutes to the individual.
The scene is lively, bursting with energy - perhaps the buzz has them, too? A lady waters flowers, a small girl plays the sad card to her mother; older women chat their gossip about what intrigues their taste for drama as the older man group – regulars at the morning's weekday frenzy – disbands and goes about their day.
Outside, men discuss over plans of the physical sort, referring to different things with their hand gestures. With the onset of June comes a shift, perceivable and recognizable. Do you feel it?
A pregnant woman walks in – nothing unusual and yet there is a kinder regard for her, as if she holds something important.
Like a typical buzz, artificially induced or not, there reaches a point when you level-off and mellow-in. This is where the vibe is. The ladies pour on, leaning in to listen intently to what the others are saying – conveying real interest. The older man group, in a surprising shift of tides, grows instead of dwindling. When one leaves, the lazy Susan keeps rotating to reveal a new face to the group. Bikes with people on them come and go, as do dogs on leashes – some with their mouths tied close to prevent biting or chiding.
A blonde Jackie O comes in the door – complete with the lacy trimmed dress and stylistic Jackie O sunglasses. And on and on...this buzz will continue to climb and level, eventually reaching a climax for most, though the inevitable burst of late bloomers will hit at their premeditated rise to the top within the hours of the day they see fit. Perhaps this is getting on with what it all is: the freedom to choose.
Just maybe, possibly, this is the most intoxicating – even more than the buzz we imbibe, swallow, inhale, inject, snort, gurgle, lick, suckle, apply etc. And, do we know this?
Do the individual sums in the total understand their gravity in the mathematical arithmetic? Their butter in the cake batter, chip in the bingo game, or teeth in the cogged machine?
Do I even understand? I, the man alongside the outside boundary, reasonably comfortable in my perch; soaking up the refracted rays to photosynthesize these words – the words of a wallflower amidst the daises, dosies, floozies, flimbos, and snuffleupaguses. Of all shapes, though mostly white, like I. And perhaps that drives the nail home into the wood: this is a racially sterile environment, a greenhouse in which one can flourish – day after day.
Fortunately, when I was created, I was not confined to be bound to the pot of existence, yet exited the womb of life to walk upon legs. As I'm doing as soon as I finish this sentence.
See you in the sun,