The Bench that I Sit On

Hopefully my inspiration isn't intermittent like hospital visits.

There's a seat at the very end of a very long bench, concrete and the plants behind your back are prickly. They dig into the skin and snag your clothes even when you have just worked to find that optimal position to keep them at bay. I sit on this bench not for its comfort, not for the mysterious smells coming from the fixed trash can nearby. There's a ribbon of view, right between the eyes of buildings and trees the Golden Gate Bridge and the water under it are drawn back into perspective with a twang. Perfect straight lines of streets and of concrete tipped by the faraway ocean and the faraway bridge like an arrow getting thicker and thicker growing closer and closer to my face. People's daily tasks walk back and forth in the foreground, a homeless man in ragged clothes holding up his pants with one hand holds conversation with himself, gesturing to himself with the other. Nothing is still save for: me, buildings, streets, water, bridge.

This place inspires me.