People are waiting for disaster. Almost everyone, it seems like sometimes. We can feel it in our bones that something bad is going to happen. There's a thin, silty feeling of dread being churned out in the marrow.
My family back home probably wonders how I can afford to live downtown in the city. I talk blithely of all the fancy things I'm close to, the sea air, being walking distance to everything.
I don't bother mentioning my place is a single-occupancy room above a bar on the borderline between Gastown and the skids. The hallways are always dark. In the shared bathroom there is a needle disposal unit mounted on the wall. No toilet seat. Glue traps in the corners. All night long music throbs like a muffled heart.
One night a week I have to myself and that is when the feeling slinks through my blood most strongly, the knowledge of something bad coming. The sea air clogs in my nose like I've been crying.
Restless, no money usually either. I have books that feel increasingly distracting instead of enlightening. There's something I need to know but I don't know where to find it. Mostly I engage with the view out the window. What else is there to do when you're waiting, but watch?
I can see the sidewalk through the rain-filmy glass. Crawling traffic and the Crayola colors of traffic lights smeared across puddles. People walking, head down and swiftly, as if they don't wish to let on they are being pursued.
It is an uneasy thing to always wait, and not for a revolution or a rising-up or anything like that you could commit to.