Morning Walk

 If the streets could express themselves, they would would have spoke of their anxiety. In terrible traffic, every inch of space is fought for. The noise of engines are incessant. The cars are getting bigger, motorcycles are whizzing in between, and lines of even bigger trucks are still catching-up on their backlogs (due to a global supply chain crisis) on the way to and from the pier.  The good old jeeps still stop in the middle of the street, at their own whim, and unloading anytime, anywhere along our potholed pavements, around smelly sewers and we can't walk on pedestrian lanes because the vendors are there.

If the streets could speak they would spoke of their nostalgia for days when our society shut itself out, when everybody was holed up at their homes. The streets were quiet, the air (in the meantime) was more breathable, and the streets were not stinking of sewage, a cocktail of human sweat and colognes, gas burning from combustion engines, all of which you can smell through face masks. The streets were not spilled with everyone's anxiety, marching on to their daily hustle.

The streets must be sick of all of us.