Franklin's Murmission

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On this Tuesday, there is no difference at all, was the phrase that he continuously murmured. The first murmur was completed before he exited his pension near the corner of Culpina and the Avenida Eva Perón. His murmur was not particular to Tuesdays, nor its consequences, nor the ethereal fog that he found upon leaving Esdras back at home. A typical murmur spell. During the spells, trains pass him and undergrounds reach their destinations. He sweats out the last inklings of any substance in his body while a fog lifts and settles again. Billboards blur and restaurants empty and lights dim. At the end, everyone goes home to inner lairs of thoughts and mundane noise. In rambunctious unison his murmurs, these events, and his thoughts (which are not legible nor writable) struggle for life like the dying light bulb flickering its last beam of light to proclaim existence. His head fills with noise and static. The static and noise drone in unanimity and cage his murmurs of; there is no difference at all. 

The transmissions of his thoughts intertwine with this murmur like the French braids of young girls. They hang like the same braids, resting on his upper back. They emit a similar smell to that of wet earth. Audibly they harmonize with perfect pitch with an ability to morph with efforts to accompany the plethora of city sounds. This Tuesday, it morphed to the brakes of the underground as the underground arrived to Plaza Virreyes station. The composition and performance merited a recording. The moment could have been experienced in its fullness by any attentive being. He went alone, beginning at the Bolívar station and ending in Plaza Virreyes via the E line. Or vice versa. Or start at Primera Junta, whichever, there is no difference at all. On this Tuesday and on this ride, the lull in time that Franklin experienced added a chorus to the murmurs being backed by the transmission of thought. He recognized a minuscule and nonexistent difference between frustration and indignation, there is no difference at all. The beauty of the murmur and Franklin's transmissions, perceived in smell, sound (and touch), is that differences become obsolete. The bearings of balance declare a presence that is consumed universally by all transitory members of the underground; a portal of sorts. Franklin on this particular Tuesday, possibly entering this portal, had no notion of presence, of existence, of location, of participation, and crashed into a convenient disturbance.  The murmission of Franklin summoned it and opened dialogue with the same. A certain duality of indignation and frustration elevated this murmission and suspended it up into the dark tunnels of the underground so to declare its importance. The suspension culminated in an invisible implosion. Fortunately for Franklin, the tendency concluded in its familiar and mundane transit on the underground. When the sunlight graced his skin again he was acutely reminded how the world is plagued with tendency and there is no difference at all.