On a cold winter when I am running late for work. Only one coffee in my body, I am still half awake, half asleep. I try to read, not to dream, on my train to London Bridge. I missed my stop or stepped into the wrong train way too many times in the last weeks. I step onto the platform and steadily follow the clacking sound of my shoes against the paving stone. I navigate through the morning rush, through the big bold crowd of people trying to get to work on time. Tap the oyster out. Walk through the station halls. Step onto the street. Gust of wind.
I look up.
The next second decides how the day will turn. Will I be blinded by the light or surrounded by the gloom of the clouds?
Today is a lucky day, a beam of light hits my retina after bouncing a passing by car. I look around. Victorian buildings are splattered with the spots of light. Golden patches illuminate the sandstone balustrades, brighten red rusty bricks, highlight handsome arches. Tired buildings come alive. Young glass towers that still know little about the city life, catch the sun and share the light around. My pace is steady, my ankles are bare, but I march steadily with my head turned up towards the sky. I don’t count the steps, the streets are mine.
Like a solar powered battery I charge. My skin collects the positive particles. Gathers the supplies of the scarce vitamin D, initiating the production of melanin. Eyes bright, my mind is full of ideas, full of energy and creativity.
If there is sun in the morning on my way to work, today is going to be a good day.
