In that split second, you go through another paroxysm of emotion.
Standing on the same broken and uneven pavement where your clumsy steps get your high heels stuck, you flag a cab. A lady sits in the corner with her big basket. She is selling her apples or tomatoes or whatever they are, arranging them once every few minutes so you see the good ones. Or only the good side of the rotten ones. The bright ones. The shiny ones. The happy ones.
She also sells emotions very cheap. And dichotomies, in pairs - Good-bad, right-wrong - not the black and white choice of the forked road, but a whole baggage full of emotion. Not to mention, a change of clothes, shoes, perfume, and a different set of accessories, for each new day.
And thought, the thoughts. Thoughts are on sale. All of two cents worth. And you buy one, you get ten free. You remember those? The ones which were given away at a contest held on top of that hill. Intense. Like the little souvenir your colleague got from his trip that sits on your table and watches you. Redundant yes, but isn't it always the thought that counts?
She sells the sorrows of life's misfortune. The happiness of it-could-have-been-worse. The gelid hyperboles. The excuses for impunity for yesteryears. The incredulous promises for tomorrow.
Words melt, flow and collect in the broken part of the pavement. They form a puddle. You reflect. Thankfully, you resist splashing in.
The end of another yearn.