Minutes To Midnight

It was fifteen minutes to midnight, and as usual, I was leaning against the same old tree which is eternally young at the same old spot which never seems to grow old.

And as the wind became faster and colder, I tool out my cigarette and lit it up. The same old habit that has never left.  Funny, eh? 

The city, filled with skyscrapers, building of weird design, with people living in the past, worried about the future and missing the present, with companies using electrical billboards to tell us to save electricity. Funny, eh?

Every day the same old monotonous routine, same old hustle and bustle, the same old boring people with no change whatsoever. But then again, I’m not so different, coming here night after night.

It is this spot, up on the hills, putting me far away from civilization, the concrete jungle.

Everyday plays out about the same, wake up, do stuff, go to work, come back, do more stuff and then come here to take a smoke and escape reality, then go back and let the river flow without disturbance.

Every day I see the same cars and the same people, going to work or coming back or partying or murdering or assaulting and I wonder, do they never like a change? Do they also never see me? Don’t they ever notice a pair of white soulless eyes glaring right into them?

It was still a few minutes to midnight when my cigarette finished and about time for me to move away and fit back into my place in the space time continuum without interfering with the natural order of things. And I put on my white cloak and floated away, looking twenty-four hours into the future, not surprised at what was in store for me