Pump
The main vein that pumps life and death into the city in which we lie. Vessels flowing north and south to gather masses of cloth and zipper. Loved ones. Constantly flowing and pumping.
standing. At the center of it all. The terminal that will decide a yes, a no, a proposal, bad news. Your son isn't coming home, but his brothers are here to greet and console you.
White noise blares on a nearby PDA breaking the concentration of these vessels for only a moment before falling back into the flow of the other cells around them.
Exhale
Pump
How fragile this is.
Pump
What a small thing it takes to break this, to mess with the cycle. How captivating it is to be one among thousands and feel like one among none.
Pump
Then he's there. A boy with a rose, glancing at the digitized master which speaks "she has arrived, wait here for her."
Pump
anxiously pacing for who ever will walk up those stairs.
Pump
Whoever will make her way out of the central valve, into the rest of the functioning body, moving to the one other cell waiting for her. For unity. Completion.
These are the rebel cells. The ones that break the cycle and the flow for a selfish moment in which each body pauses to see. Some to cry, some to clap, some to laugh. Some to be reminded of their loved one and others to be reminded of their lack there of. But all to be touched, encouraged, moved, and paused.
The heart of this place. This city. For a moment stops beating.
Stops pumping.
To experience something greater than cycle and pattern. To witness an anomaly to this central system. To witness, and therefore bear witness, to love.
Inhale.
Pump.
Feet on linoleum. Eyes towards the central valve. Heart toward welcoming a good friend home.
Pump.
Mind refreshed. Body sturdy.
Pump
Soul willing.
Pump.
Pump.
Exhale
Pump
