Detachment

While outside, I have this feeling of separation from the concrete, the tangible. Everything seems filtered through a lens, as if I am viewing a memory or a dream. The morning commuters are usually perfect examples of realism, but to me they take on a film-noir tone. Their faces are obscured or expressionless masks. Vapor rises from the exhaust of a truck. Colors are dampened by the rain. Raindrops fall on the windshield. There are no details, only impressions. I am there, looking, hearing, smelling, but I feel like the present is already a memory, already fading, soon forgotten.