Towering Above

The Ascent

Most construction sites stop work at five but these guys were doing overtime, something I hadn't considered. The last man left at half past six. I could see him leave as I was ascending to the 50th floor in the rusty construction hoist. Something about 50 seemed right. It just felt better jumping off from a round number, easier to say at funerals. In a way, I was being convenient, as I had all my miserable life.

The elevator was slow and for some reason, more so than usual. I had time to think. Fifty didn't seem too smart anymore. But this was just prolonging the inevitable. Anyways, I wasn't coming back down the same way.
As I looked outside, I could see the tiny cabs and people, similar to ants going about their melancholic lives in the false hope of success.
The New York skyline was the same as before but tonight it looked prettier, almost as pretty as the first time I saw it. The city never slept and the city never forgave. It never forgave what I did, even after I repented, pleaded, recompensed and made amends. I tried, I truly did but my crimes were written all over me. I am not an evil person, nor a saint, just bad enough to survive the harsh world and the shrewd concrete jungle they call 'the Big Apple.'
Every person looked different at the beginning of my elevator ride. Each with a story like mine. The difference being that they still had hopes and dreams, unlike me. All this changed as the numbers on the panel in the elevator increased. They began to look the same and finally you couldn't tell one from the other. As you see the world from a wider perspective, the insignificance of man overshadows his uniqueness. The sorrow and joy on their faces disappears.

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