Each street has a function, a name, and familiarity
to someone. Not merely a destination, but a place on which lives
are lived. More than lines on a map indicating territory, a street
defines a place. Vehicles drive and humans wander, tripping through
what others leave behind. Cigarette butts, empty bottles, and dog shit
reminders that we are not alone on this path. The human race,
not without a whisper or trace of humanity.
Traffic patterns become the regularity marking our time,
coming and going on the same street, the same route, the pedestrian
nature of what we do, and how we live. We travel with frequency
along indistinguishable streets to get done what we need to, and enjoy it
as we can. Little happens at night, silence stretching to fill the space as
taxicabs and cowards leave little light behind. You can’t imagine streets
not being there, yet man and beast travelled before they existed.
Fate or destiny, missed turns along the way. Calm or cold,
you decide if it is late, or early, when you arrive. Even rush hour moves
forward. Lanes merge and we struggle with speed and direction.
Congestion on major arteries, blood pressure measured with the click of
the turn signal. We come to dislike traffic and our place in it. There is
no point between A and B, frustrations articulated by the contrast. We each
have an address and every street takes somebody home.