With clouds as varied as the moon's surface, it would seem that there is texture and complexity in the sky's recent, preferred monochrome. Any nuances in the light or the cloud are invisible.
There's another residential street, somewhat hilly. The well-kept front yards are punctuated with all manner of resplendent and repugnant Christmas - sorry, holiday - decorations. There is no snow yet. Like a few lost birds, dark, dead leaves occasionally blow in their dusty way across the grey sky, landing amongst the inflatable Christmas Disney characters, the reindeer, the strands of lights which will illuminate homes when darkness falls somewhere between 4:45 and 5:30. It depends on the day, of course, but we haven't been treated to a sunset in a while, so most of the day feels like the middle of the night anyway.
The grey sky is the background to these houses, to a lone figure walking, hair and coat blown about. Those that live in these houses let their dogs roam, bark at this person. Occasionally, it crosses the street, quickly, to avoid these angry snarls and aggression. It moves parallel to more homes, mostly still with aluminum siding, suburban gardens and windows, heavily-lidded with curtains or standard issue blinds. No one else is on the streets. No one else is walking. No one else sees her.
The body in movement would like to stand out by not standing out. But how does one not stand out when one has fallen through the socially prescribed cracks? Again?
You wonder what life was like here before the factories emptied out and the drug-addled wanderers made comments about your appearance on the street. Before they came close enough to touch and sneered, "I'll bet they were beeping at her." Before you didn't tell your coworkers that you liked to walk around because they looked at you in horror and then looked quickly away. Many have come to accept certain quirks like liberal worldviews and Dr. Martens boots, but not fishnets or putting oneself in a potentially "uncomfortable" situation.
But after being chased by a homeless, mentally ill man on on you way to yoga at a studio in Washington Square Park in another world, you realize how each situation is a series of contradictions. That nice lady smiling at you with all her teeth in Wallgreens - she's cheating on her husband. The cashier who tells you to have "a blessed day," without stopping to check whether religion is even waiting in the wings of your life is also an abusive alcoholic.
Those empty buildings aren't entirely vacant either. As you bike to work and try not to be hit by a car, you see shift workers out on break, faces dusted with their labors and packets of cigarettes peeking from shirt pockets. They stand or congregate around benches just far enough from the factory doors as to enjoy the fresh air, but still so close that they are reminded that the freedom of the workday's end is still hours away. They are remarkably quiet, you might notice; if this was New York City and these men were construction workers, you would receive catcalls or comments despite being bundled up to the eyeballs against the crispy clean air. Here, however, perhaps their silence is better; you've already experienced the tunnel-like thinking of many and spied more than one Trump shirt at the clean, proper, suburban grocery store which commends itself on its diversity by having one international aisle and Hanukkah candles next to the seasonally displaced Christmas memorabilia.
The streets on your morning run might be emptier than before, save schoolchildren waiting to be bused. They sometimes smile shyly, and you make a point to beam and to wave any any small girls. It's not about you, it's about them, and setting a good example. You're the grownup now. You are the one that others admire and you know that because there is no longer the gnawing self-loathing cannibalizing your worldview. But when you're around the corner, you start to skip and sing out loud lyrics to the best album this year, whose creators you've already seen twice in sweaty, beery venues. With whiskey in hand, you sang yourself hoarse and your heart swelled to other creatives' passion and dedication and the excitement you shared with the love of your life next to you. Because even though this music helped you understand yourself, knowing it touched another's heart doubles its overall beauty and meaning.
So you run, and you gaze at the fluffy clouds and the watercolor sunrise and you feel a little sad because it will be darker this time next week. And you go to your designated spot and complete your designated tasks and you don't worry about how it affects your being any longer. You leave and you drive and you sing and you feel free and light of heart and pollute the environment and struggle and laugh and learn and don't feel the need to profess it on a bumper sticker or vapid social media posts. You are considered dull, but your life is that kaleidoscope of color that you watched during summer sunsets, beer in hand after long bike rides, chilly lake swims and sweaty afternoons walking past empty warehouses, dilapidated houses and local businesses with air conditioning, warm smiles and too-long conversations.