Other people have written about this. I'm going to write about it.
That curb you pass on the street each day, you know the one. You don't think too much about it, but they cut the pavement out and poured some temporary asphalt until they can get it properly repaired. There's a protruding manhole cover near to it.
You pass the curb on your bike every day. There's a spot on the curb where if you line it up just right you can put you foot comfortably down while you wait for the red. The sign by it has a graffiti tag on it.
You don't think about it, but it's become intensely familiar to you. If they changed it, you'd mind. It's yours.
And one day, I hope soon, or already, you'll have a funny realization: it's other peoples', too.
You've gone and developed, through a thousand foot-downs, a hundred unconscious glances, and tens of slow gazes, you've gone and developed intimacy with this place. But the bench at the bus stop, the metal tubes along the parking-lot fence, the odd tree with some sticks holding it up, the ten thousand other small details, all these things, these things other people they are intimate with them too.
This is what the cities are, this is how we glue and sync together, and without knowing it, it's. A miracle.
October 23, 2016