Rushing

Shivering. Their bodies vibrate and hum and if it was quiet enough you would hear a collective chatter of teeth. But that’s only for those who have time to be cold, that’s for the people who shuffle their feet over the slushy ground. Then there are those who rush, the fast movers, those who have no time to be cold, because they feel time isn’t on their side. They always have to be there, wherever there is. They don't stop to admire the trees without leaves, bending to the wind, creating a soft melody, or the architecture of a building that holds more stories than anyone in their lifetime ever will. They focus on the "then", never the now. They run through the streets avoiding the droplets that fall from the awning and don't take in a single sight. They don't see the artwork that was plastered on the decrepit building, how someone risked their life to tell a story with spray paint, they don't see the thousands of flowers that are lined up at stands waiting to be sold and cared for, or the children who are playing on the swings at the playground. Don't grow up. Don't rush.