One could venture to say that after the nine-to-fivers have dispersed to their respective homes and the scholars have holed themselves up in the library, Dundas Square becomes a mere shadow of itself, barely living up to its name. Without the Eaton Centre touristas, students spilling from the AMC life tower or the thrifty culture seekers lined up in anticipation for the lottery box office, the ‘heart’ of Toronto would be a deserted architectural wasteland.
Scaffolding flourishes as snow subsides. With the onset of spring, latticework grows exposed, and economically unapologetic about its booming status. Framework is integrated into the city skyline and encases its high rises, a structural exoskeleton of sorts.
I don’t think I will ever get used to the soundtrack of the suburbs. Despite what Disney has taught me, morning birds chirping outside my window is more harrowing than the hammering of a construction drill. Perhaps I’m now accustomed to sleeping through it.
The city is lonely. Not in the lack-of-friends-slash-lack-of-things-to-do type loneliness, but the type that consumes from inside, leeching without being noticed. So are we, surrounded all the time. Suffocated by gargantuan buildings and tiny apartments, boxed in and stuffed to the brim.