meditation on home (unfinished)

[adventumpueri]

Midgar-Edge has a certain, unique smell, doesn’t it? Exhaust from the main thoroughfare, fresh bread, leaf litter smoke. Dryer sheets and cotton-polyester that barely endures the heat, if it’s the weekend. In the distance, the haunting call of crow murders, mothers chasing after their downy young. And later in the year, you may hear the sound of children in their winter boots, stomping in crumbling, slush-ridden asphalt, the sludge painting their new coats grey on their rush to school. Weaving through sidewalks lined with their older brothers’ mopeds and mountain bikes. And their sisters who hold cigarettes, limp between calloused fingers, filling front porches across the town with mournful laughter. Come now, look here! Follow the thumping bass through an unopened apartment window; weave to the next, higher up, and hear the screaming couple, the breaking glass; and back on the ground, strays baying as they tussle in the grassless lawns, the melting snow. 

How quaint, how silly. Everything in its place. The coughing factory district to the east and the glitzy downtown to the north. The shadow of Shinra to the west. Someone’s whole world to the south. Oh?

You look to one alley, where a man in black zips his coat to his nose and tries to blink moisture back into his eyes. In the bag slung across his shoulder is a collection of books — books he was told he would never be able to read. Look through them, if you want. It’s nothing particularly interesting. The wind is sharp and unforgiving. The city’s center most buildings — fledgling skyscrapers — create tunnels that whip his face red. Pretty little lights cross the tower gaps and no one appreciates them because they are taught to fear the back alleyways. The man in black does not seem to care about anything he was told or taught. He dances around the poorly salted concrete, his tennis shoes unfit for these icy treks across town. In certain areas, the leaders of the new city insist on technology to keep ice from accumulating. But of course, this is implemented only where travelers are meant to be impressed by Edge’s rehabilitation. The man does not live there.

He steps around puddles and drags his feet through snow piles from the morning plows. He crosses the street, crosses another, and another, ad infinitum… Edge has a certain, eternal nature, doesn’t it? All of these one-ways and roundabouts — you could cross every street and still get nowhere. And here we see the average of all men! Walking, walking, getting nowhere. You’d think he has no will at all. People and pets and buildings come and go as they have for decades, since Midgar’s first brick was laid. Stagnant water seeps through the centennial foundations. The world is destroyed from the outside-in, and here he is. Walking, walking, his books in his bag, the wind in his face, his thoughts elsewhere. He doesn’t know it — or he doesn’t want to — but like the foundations, his history is sealed here, encased in the concrete. Seeded in smog and steel, smothered by debris in a derelict hospital ward. Above these charred remains, the clouds part and we grant him witness. Beyond that, there is nothing but thin fabrics of space, stretching eternally, fraying across time. 

Now… are you satisfied? Isn’t there something else you’d like to see? This flyover town is no centerpiece — not anymore, no matter how the leaders and their beneficiaries try. This man and his ilk the world over will walk forever, their wheels will turn, but nothing will change. They can call it ‘rebuilding’ all they want. Humanity has doomed itself to entropy. Midgar-Edge is a microcosm of the planet: a crucible, a lost cause, another one of mankind’s hopeless experiments. Still, your thoughts remain with the man in black. Follow him up to the hill and down the other side. Dodging cars, giving other people a wide berth. Something glints in his pockets — a knife? Of course, but also, keys. Yet, the door unlocks before he can manage it himself, and he is hit with a wall of warmth. Someone is here to meet him. He smiles, taps the snow from his soles and steps into his home. Through the frost you note the other person’s silhouette. His bag slides from his shoulder, and I place my hand on yours, to stop you from getting any closer to the window, because there is nothing beyond it for you. There is nothing to be found with this no-thing, this wraith, and its simulacrum of peace.

Watch your step as you back away from the glass. The earth spins and the city becomes a speck as you rise, returning to your rightful place among the stars. Reminiscence can be a fine indulgence, yes? But let’s not take it too far. Memory, or the lack of it, is a tricky thing. Remember, and become stagnant. Forget, and become stagnant. So we decide the future is all that matters. The city is lost, and the man — the men, the women, the children, everyone — even more so. We know more than anything what humanity’s fate ought to be.

Still, in defiance, you peer down. Focus again. Now, there is a shift. It’s so cold. His face is red and his nose runs. The water in the sink burns, even though it is only lukewarm. Behind him, a silhouette rifles through his bag, looking for the book and the sandwich the man swore to remember. A dramatic groan, when it’s revealed he spent the money on late fees. Maybe next time. His legs are tired from the hike home, and the fluorescent lights are a bit too much at the moment. Following this silent complaint, as if on cue, they lower — made dim by the automatic decrease in energy output that occurs every evening.