quid pro quo

I do not think I’ve told you about that walk home one night.

The air smelled of freshly cut grass and of fresh rain. It’s tempting not to breathe out (if only I can just keep on sucking the smell in.) Then I passed by a shrub of yellow flowers and I suddenly missed a number of bees who swarm these plants in the morning. Then a motorcycle drove by and I thought about my father who once got stung by a bee while riding his bike. I smiled and muttered, “…the wanders of the mind”.

Then the air smelled of cologne and fragrances as I shared the sidewalk with people on their way to work. My day has just ended and their day was just about to begin (and I can almost hear them curse in their minds as I hear the heavy, fast trudge of their feet.) I could be wrong, but then I could be right that no matter how we try to think and say to ourselves that life is not at all a race, there is that feeling of a pitfall of a trap (because it’s tricky when you acknowledge this) in the instance where you get to (literally) meet the has–beens of the destination where you were going to.

Then I looked up and saw that little red light of an aircraft above that was about to land. I do walk fast, but I know that night I was racing to meet the aircraft on an (x,y) coordinates as if we were in a two–dimensional plane. Then, the aircraft and I met; I looked up and stared at it; and it looked down on me and flashed its flashy, so–far–away light. Then in less than a minute, the both of us moved on to each of our course: I was hearing echoes of its deafening sound like thunder to an owl, while it as it was landing on the same ground I was walking on, probably got its wings on ground effect.