Traffic

He stood there quietly, as if waiting for someone. Or something. A figure cut out from the dark shadows, watching the traffic whizzed by and by. Until it was almost a blur. Until those faces, whom might be his neighbour, his friend’s parent or someone remotely related to him, became those vehicles in which they were in.Something struck him about those faces. Something about a story behind every one of them in fact. Who was to know that the person driving the Beemer wasn’t rich, but in fact, belong to the nouveau riche? The Singapore nouveau riche, not those established tycoons. These people were just living on borrowed time. Or who was to know that the young kid (that looked 20 but was actually 27) driving the Toyota Celica was no silver-spoon-in-the-mouth kid but a young entreprenuer who sloughed his way through to get to where he was today. Or that budding artist on the public bus with that exuberant look, who had struggled for years to get his art exhibited and had finally succeeded today.

Who? Who but him to see all that? Those faces hiding behind a facade of vehicles. A facade of traffic.

One car, two cars, three taxis, oh that’s four taxis now. Not three. A Harley over there. An uncommon sight. More cars coming now…He gave up counting them. It was a fruitless effort. Fruitless to distinguish Much like what those people in their modes of transport were. Fruitless efforts of creation. Traffic. All heading in one direction. Destruction.

With a deep sigh, he took out a cigarette and lit it. In that brief moment, the flame did its best to drive away the enveloping darkness. But as quickly as it was taken out, it was extinguished. No trace of it remained. And the darkness insidiously reclaimed what was rightfully its.

The cigarette smoke snaked slowly upwards, making more rounds above his folded arm. He took a deep breath and puffed out the remainder of the toxins. No wonder some wanted to save only the animals and not humans. No wonder Atlantis was sunk. But who remembers that now? In this age of science, no one really cared for anything anymore. What advancements are there now? No Leonardo da Vinci, no Chopin, no Shakespeare. Only Dolly, the cloned sheep.

Another sigh. This one much deeper, as though he was attempting to physically force out his depression from the depths of his liver. The cigarette, now almost to its end, dropped to the pavement. And without any attempt to stump it out, he stretched out his hand and flagged a cab.

To fade into the traffic beyond…

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9 thoughts on “Traffic

  1. Gerad, thanks for your kind compliments. I would most certainly participate in the Blogfest as you recommended. However,may I ask as to how you have stumbled across my humble tomes?

    And Darkestharf, it’s always a pleasure having you drop by 🙂 Such a rarity!

    Yours truly
    Aristocrat

  2. ah..i stumbled upon your abode from poet of the week…am an avid reader of poet…but the same cannot be said for writing poems…a skill which i hope to master someday (or is it an innate talent?) 😉

  3. Ahh, that explains it. I’m surprised any Singapore was reading Poetisphere at all ha.

    Well, I do hope those two skills you mentioned are not exclusive of each other. One always have to start somewhere. Have you started?

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