The writer takes the first taxi of September, a ride that feels like a debut for a life that is about to unfold. September is a doorway; the month brings a rush of new beginnings, a fresh script for the days ahead, every turn full of potential and uncertainty.
“You look dark”, the driver observes, his curiosity nudging the conversation forward as if he suspects there is a story hidden behind the eyes.
“I am walking”, the narrator replies, choosing honesty over silence, choosing to map the moment with steps rather than with the tires recording distance. The road hums under the wheels, a low, steady breath beneath the city’s morning clamor.
It’s clear he wants to spark a dialogue, to trade a few lines that might ease the ride and maybe illuminate a fragment of the person riding in the back seat.
“You, on the other hand, are white”, the driver notes, perhaps referring to the pale light that falls across the street, or to a clarity that looks almost unearned in the rush of daily demands. The remark lands, simple yet loaded, inviting a moment of reflection rather than a quick reply.
The speaker confesses a restless energy: there is no belief in resting during this season’s transition. A long, hot summer has been poured into the hands of the days, leaving a residue of sweat and effort that refuses to settle into quiet repetition.
– So are you okay? asks the driver, glancing for a sign of ease or exhaustion in the other’s posture, in the cadence of the breath, in the unspoken weather of the moment.
– Perfectly. The speaker refuses to participate in what he calls the summer chimera, a mirage that promises happiness to some and leaves others chasing a shadow of contentment that never quite arrives.
“I say yes,” comes the answer, decisive and breezy, as if the world’s obstacles cease to matter in the face of a resolved stance toward living.
“I’ve been on both sides,” the driver adds, easing the engine and testing the air with a rueful smile, a hint that he understands more than the surface reveals.
-Only two sides? asks the other, a spark of curiosity lighting the exchange as if two colors might be mixed to create something entirely new.
-Maybe there are more, that’s all I know and the other, the extra shade that refuses to settle into any single category.
-How about the other one?
– It’s the same. The distinction lies in what you can see inside and how seams line up beneath the surface, visible only to those who look closely enough to notice the craft of the thing being worn.
-What does it mean?
-The matter is recognizably formed yet empty at heart, built from air that feels tangible until you try to hold it. On the other hand, even concrete, no matter how heavy, can dissolve into steam when the heat of interpretation rises. The driver explains that life, viewed from this taxi’s window, seems like smoke that shifts with every mile traveled.
-Do you spend a lot of time on the other side?
-I come and go as mood and weather permit, he replies, letting a small shrug carry the thought forward.
-And which side are you on now, there or here?
– Same as you over there, the speaker concedes, admitting that the line between places feels blurred in the moment, a temporary fork rather than a firm division.
The truth settles in with the quietness that follows a confession: the narrator has just arrived in Madrid, a city he usually calls home, and the arrival comes with a sensory storm—a hallucinatory, unreal sensation that everything around him seems fluid, incoherent, a kind of delirium that makes the streetlights flicker into distant constellations.
“Well, I was headed to a business meeting,” he explains, attempting to anchor the moment with a practical note as if the day’s agenda could offer some ordinary clarity.
“Go,” the taxi driver encourages, his voice carrying a philosophy that lingers. “But don’t let yourself believe everything you hear.”
The speaker nods, a quiet acknowledgment that conversation is only a partial guide, and that perception often wears a cloak of doubt. He accepts the invitation to move forward, to continue the journey with a careful skepticism that keeps him from mistaking fiction for fact.