Intersection

I stood still at the intersection, hands warm in the jacket's pocket, eyes trying to make forms out of vague apparitions in the inky darkness. It was past midnight and I could not decide which road I wanted to cross. So I decided to just stand there for a while, look at the traffic, and something more-but only if I get unlucky.

It's both an epic excercise in futility and complexity. Cars waltzing to the whims of an inductive loop, slowing, stopping, and moving as the night is painted crimson, red and green. Stretched over a large enough time, the repetitive nature of this excercise evokes an almost derisive smile. A shake of the head. A shrug of the shoulders at the robotic predictability of modern life. The grunt of the engine as it is restrained, its eager supplications, and the euphoric release-and the neon periodicity reflected over a blurred asphalt. I have driven cars on my share of solitary nights through my portion of deserted intersections. I have, on some of such occasions, wondered about the pedestrian who is seen crossing the road at such an hour-his motives and destinations hard to fathom. I have seen in him a pointlessness. I have often juxtaposed him against myself and felt bemused-purposefully sitting in my car, although temporarily stationary, my right foot is only waiting for the green signal. And then I'd leave him far far behind and when I'd be miles away crusing toward a purpose, a destination, he would have covered just a few steps. And the neon lights would be shining on his back, prodding him to move faster, coloring his shirt in stamps of uselessness.

Standing at the intersection, I was aware of both the roads. But I decided to just stay there for a while, look at the daubs of paints. In the background of lighted buildings, amidst the complexity of vague forms, reflected in false colors on the beguiling road, almost everything assumes the outlines of your desires. And you cannot make out the identity of things in this madhouse of impressionistic chiaroscuro, until you are certain of its lifelessness. Late night walkers move in elongated shadows and you can almost tread over their heads. Headlights shine rudely on your eyes just as you are trying to make a red spectrum correction. I stood there for almost an hour, trying to make out discernible figures in moving objects. I stood there, trying to identify the figure I did not want identified. Do you not walk at night these days? Or have you finally managed to blend in the background?