Train station to Baruch college

Two doors open.
I take my first step as the last cold air of the subway car grazes the back of my neck and I face the incurable heat of an underground station on a warm summer’s day.
Turn the turnstile.
Go up the stairs.
I walk on wards.
The moving pieces of the city recalls an image of a beehive. I make my way through the swarming people, hesitating but then jerking a step forward in order to resist bumping into anyone’s cold shoulder. I make it to the first crosswalk.
Five seconds on the walk sign.
“Five seconds? I could make it.”
“Run! Run! Run!” I made it across successfully, with perhaps a honk or two pointing fingers at me.
I step on wards to Baruch College.
To my left, the capitalists’ concrete citadels. Standing outside of them are those people that are self-proclaimed bourgeoisie on Friday nights, but then again the fighting proletariat on Monday mornings. They stand outside blowing a minute of their life away with every puff of smoke.
To my right, the ones that make me feel guilt, for my consciousness forgets to pay much heed to them. I speak of the street vendors. In their claustrophobic kiosks and carts. Some of them smile, for their smiles are their billboards- those sleep-ridden eyes don’t attract much customers and I think they know that.
I meet my second crosswalk.
The ones standing on the other side of the crosswalk, they either look down to their devices to distract themselves from impatience or they look towards the direction at where I am standing. I notice them looking towards my direction. I wonder what they are thinking about at that moment. Perhaps they are new to the city and can’t afford to lose their sense of direction. Perhaps they see something interesting behind me that I am missing- “should I turn my head back?” Perhaps they are wondering the same thing I’m wondering. Perhaps they… Red light. Cars stop. We cross.
Halfway there. Sweat begins to trickle down my neck, the heat is exhausting, guilty conscience comes back: “perhaps I should be more physically active”. I am now crossing through a park, where some sit comfortably on benches under the shade while some display their physical prowess. Some jog, some bike, some run, I look at the time, it is 10 am, I wonder if these people have jobs or have a day off.
The heat is beginning to slow me down, I look at the sun and recall Heraclitus’ fragment: “the sun is new everyday”, but why do I feel the same? Same old me, same old journey, the people, the roads, everything is starting to look the same, this journey is beginning to feel endless. I become less observant here.
The end doesn’t feel like an accomplishment anymore, for I must do it again the next day, and the next day and the next- do I come off as disinterested? But then here it comes, I see the corner of it, as I walk on wards, yes it is beginning to slowly reveal the rest of itself, I see it! I see it! I see the odd curvature of the building, I see the other students holding their hope for sustainable energy in white cups in their hands.
Metal doors open.
I approach the metal doors as the last remark of the city’s heat grazes the back of my neck; I face the swinging doors, grasp the handle- the cold air of the subway car comes back- I feel relief, I deny looking at my watch for the fear of being late. I have arrived.
Turn the turnstile.
Go up the stairs.
I walk on wards.