4

the wind blew so hurridly; a rapidness of air, the stifling smell of burning tar and pollutant gas. but glancing again at the middle of the road, i observed a median, a middle way between two opposing roads; one ascending to my left, and one descending to my right. i make note about the median, the concrete had begun to fade in colour, and i could see cracks and fragments of rocks. but on the dying colour, the textures of green, the brittleness of the browned dirt mixed with the white and grey of the pavement. on this artificial island sat a plastic bag with nothing but the rhythm of the wind pulling it to-and-fro. but me eyes noticed, no matter the eagerness of the wind nor the passing of cars; the bag stayed in its place, as if something was holding it there in a magnetic, and spellbinding trance. and yet, how i imagine the landscapes and the dreams of this stable plastic. how long had it ventured to the concrete median, and where had it been before?



swaing past the dirty streets of a downtown, perhaps in nighttime hours, the gritty voices of the drunks as they loiter about outside of the bars smoking cigarettes and mumbling half understood slurs.



or, frolicking on an empty field; the stagnant grasses, the alive and lush grasses. the song of birds and the trod trod paces of fawns and their mothers searching for any morsel of leaves to feed on. perhaps the bag stayed the night there, and lay still on it s back during a calming rain, and for a moment, was not itself in an artificial atmosphere, but in an atmosphere that had existed before the opening, birthing eyes of man. but where would this wandering nomad of a wind blown bag be without the creation of man's hands? for that night, the bag was in a desolate, peaceful, and lushful world, and it slept quietly, perhaps dreaming of being a natural being, a part of the Earth, or as the seeds of a sunflower waiting to be watered; to grow as the the beautiful colour of yellow that provides sunlight when there is no sun. a sun without a sun.