Concept for a book I want to write one day.
Enjoy.
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Above this road, with its high vantage point from far out west right through to the heart of the city, it seems a shame to share this moment alone. Cars and trucks pass by, underneath the M4 overpass. So many lives pass underneath my feet. Each car with its own destination, its own stories, its own past. My left index finger softly strokes the ring on my right. The cool metal also knows many memories, from my own past. Flashes of memories, both good and bad are brought to my eyes, which now well with tears. Roughly, I pry the ring from my finger. The resistance I feel mirrors my own reluctance to proceed. With a clasped hand, I encase the ring in darkness, so that the world cannot see it anymore. I close my eyes, and listen the sound of traffic, the rhythmic passing of constant traffic almost sending me into a trance, as I find myself being pulled back into the past once more. I find myself remembering the time I acquired the ring, and the sounds and textures in the hours after. With an ache in my heart, and a cold sweat, I find myself go limp, and in that precise moment, the ring slips from my grasp - In horror I watch my past and memories fall away from me, out of reach. I can do nothing but to see it hit the sharp asphalt below, only to be obliterated under the weight of heavy machinery. With a heavy heart, I look up into the horizon, and see not the city I love, but the skyline alight, alive with fire and hatred, contrasted with a world so cold. For hours I stare not into the distance but through it, lost in nothingness. Eventually I start to feel a shiver, it is night-time now, and the light in the sky is naught but blackness. Turning, I begin to walk back home, to a room just as dark and cold.
Enjoy.
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Above this road, with its high vantage point from far out west right through to the heart of the city, it seems a shame to share this moment alone. Cars and trucks pass by, underneath the M4 overpass. So many lives pass underneath my feet. Each car with its own destination, its own stories, its own past. My left index finger softly strokes the ring on my right. The cool metal also knows many memories, from my own past. Flashes of memories, both good and bad are brought to my eyes, which now well with tears. Roughly, I pry the ring from my finger. The resistance I feel mirrors my own reluctance to proceed. With a clasped hand, I encase the ring in darkness, so that the world cannot see it anymore. I close my eyes, and listen the sound of traffic, the rhythmic passing of constant traffic almost sending me into a trance, as I find myself being pulled back into the past once more. I find myself remembering the time I acquired the ring, and the sounds and textures in the hours after. With an ache in my heart, and a cold sweat, I find myself go limp, and in that precise moment, the ring slips from my grasp - In horror I watch my past and memories fall away from me, out of reach. I can do nothing but to see it hit the sharp asphalt below, only to be obliterated under the weight of heavy machinery. With a heavy heart, I look up into the horizon, and see not the city I love, but the skyline alight, alive with fire and hatred, contrasted with a world so cold. For hours I stare not into the distance but through it, lost in nothingness. Eventually I start to feel a shiver, it is night-time now, and the light in the sky is naught but blackness. Turning, I begin to walk back home, to a room just as dark and cold.
