Warehouse factory. Grey cement floor stretches on for actual miles. The walls are steel, metal siding. Silver and grey overwhelms. The shelves are stainless steel and stretch up towards the impossible high fluorescent roof at least 100 feet. To subject oneself to that environment is sense-deadening. After awhile, you can’t help but feel totally numb to the neutral enormity of it all. Silence. Except for the hum of the lights. There is a break in this monotony, though. The sound of chugging machinery and beeping can be heard approaching, getting closer and louder. It is a fork lift carrying a heavy load merchandised placed upon saran wrapped pallets. This golden blonde wood is strong, but easily splintered. You have to be careful when touching it. Splinters could find new residence between your thumb and forefinger if you aren’t careful with it. Latticed and constructed to hold great weights. It makes horses and camels obsolete. A team of oxen could not carry this weight. I hear the groan of the forklift take it’s lifted load and place it down in front of these towering industrial shelves. It is fresh cinnamon. The smell is overpowering, yet a welcome change to this constantly workplace blankness. I am suddenly reminded of apple pie, Fireball whisky, and all the sights and smells of Thanksgiving. One of the bags has opened and with my workman’s glove I take out a stick and hold it in my hand. It is lightweight and hollow. Brown, curved bark like a scroll ancient as the written word itself in a way. This spice has been around for centuries. And it has always been tantalizing, crucial. Has never grown old. I imagine myself in the foothills of India, among the farmers carving this bark from the cinnamon tree. I see a lush green landscape that in its beauty, is impossible not to admire. In my dull reality, it is a welcome escape to dive into flights of fancy and fantasy.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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