On the train this morning. There is a little boy in front of me, face up against the window as we go over the bridge, in nose pressed against the glass, open mouthed, unabashed, wide eyed wonder. There is so much to see and he can’t take it all in: a ferry, the opera house, the water, buildings, the shining and sparkling and the sky and the colours – his hands are tapping at the window like he could break it and just fly off into the filled up euphoric beauty beauty of it all. I’ve noticed that when the train streams out of the tunnel onto the bridge at Wynyard all the blank faced sleep deprived commuters sit up straighter, turn their eyes to the light. But right now, coming home at sunset, I’m sitting on the train going over the bridge and the sky is this amazing tangerine like you could drink it and the city is a honeycomb of gold light, but mostly people are reading, playing on their phones, I’m writing.
When did we become so uninterested: too cool, too tired, too jaded, too distracted, to soak in amazement and bliss like the kid this morning? When did we stop noticing?