The Funereal Pace of a Depthless City
12:18:00
Another day and the numbness
perpetuates itself. The shadowy vague figures wander around me, unresponsive
glacial ghosts of a thousand perfumes walking on the sidewalk of withering
cigarettes with a frenzied pace. Unfamiliar faces wobble aimlessly, bleary sour
unfamiliar leaves of Autumn falling around me, piling up in their restlessness.
I sit upon the taciturn wintry
stairs embellished with gelid marble. I am still a lush leaf, the one that
Summer left behind. I do not have a place among the roaring loudness or the
watery taste of the season. I hold back, singing the blues, whilst I catch a
glimpse of the street musician strumming the tail of the ornate guitar. I
become aware of the soft clatter of clinking coins as they fall into the small
zebra-scratched fedora hat placed on the floor. I hum the melody that strikes
my heart. He plays "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” and I hastily fade
into the heavenly cuddly memory of our now grimly unfurnished flat.
The smoke-coloured city springs up
in front of my sight and I cannot lay my eyes on a single living soul. All of
them vanished, insignificant feeble flowers plucked from their infertile land.
I look around and gaze at the deafening bleached shapes. Heartbreakingly
bitter, they magnify the strident solitude of my soul. The piercing thunder
strikes the artless sky, staining the silk-woven clouds which were veiling the
immaculate virginal bride. She weeps, noticing her blemishing snowy dress, and
I shed bitter tears because I possess only the perception of the vagabond
bodies, slipping away with the repulsive shudder of their voices.
Teardrops coat me. They wind down
into my tangled hair and embrace the dissonant tears of my whitish face. My
hands make an attempt to clean the messy face and blurred vision, but they
apprehend that sometimes we see better when we are blind. I raise my sorrowful
head. Before me, rises a city of stars. Relentless high-rise buildings climbing
high into the wild blue yonder with their thousands of windows shimmering
successively. This is the brand-new unpleasant and vociferous world, one in
which I do not belong. The wind shrills at my ears and wobbles my wettish hair,
while it takes away my dulcet past of living in a city of you.
Sorely, I rise as the blushing
dress curls to the piercing wind. My eyes get lost in the boulevard and the
soggy touch comes to life. I look up, trying to run into a God that does not
exist, while the sharp rain strikes my face. The celestial heaven brings to
light the reflection of my own infected morbid soul. I stroll through the
unyielding pavement of a ruthless cloudy grey. The aromatic velvety shrubs walk
hand in hand with me like two little children trying to appease the heady pain
that resounds in my putrid body.
My hazy eyes brim over with the booming
surrealistic road. The haughty, iron-hauled bodies stretch down the avenue,
beginning to illuminate the promenade. Vehicles speed up, their lights melting
on the ripped pavement, covering its wounds with a golden hue. My shadow
mingles on the dank floor, where my identity is washed out. I open my small
hand to our everlasting promise of love. The crumpled paper is carried away by
the filthy wind and I am bewitched by the petrifying two-faced unwillingness. I
take a step forward and there is no city of stars or city of you. Just the city
where I no longer exist.
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