How mundane it is, the small trip between levels in an elevator.
Up and down, all you can do is wait in silence, keep an eye on the levels, let your mind wander...perhaps even inspect the cleanliness of the little box you're in. It's brightly lit for the most part, save for the occasional flicker.
A part of one's life, a bridge between seconds in the hour of your day. Most pay no mind to it, but there is something about the way that this tiny space can be shared by so many people. Mirrored walls, pray tell - how many lives have you seen? How many stories have you seen but snippets of? How many moments of joy, of sadness, of anxiety, of rage have you seen?
A moment in the light. A ping. Life goes on. Stories left incomplete, the elevator still pleasantly pings loudly as it bades one goodbye while greeting another hello.
Light. Bright. Openness.
And yet, so very liminal.
Transitionary space, is it not? How many cliffhangers do you so desperately hold onto? Unable to ask "Why, whatever happens next?!", does that bother you?
Do you hold onto the cut-threads of a storyline, waiting and waiting? Does that anger you? Maybe it does. After all, when you break down, the shroud of darkness in your little cuboidal space is beckoning, as if just waiting to keep me there, to hear all I have to tell it. To freeze time, to feel satiated, to trap the little lives behind the gates of purgatory, the lights never coming on again. Empty no longer.
Even with this lingering thought, I walk past you. I feel your smile on my back.