In the melancholy of a rainy day autumn night, lies the grandest and most complete of life visions. A sort of black and white tint is applied, brightening car headlights and making car horns, somehow, louder. It blurs out the hustle & bustle of the narrow streets drowning the incredible chatter in a blanket of silence.
All that can be heard is the rain.
The grand symphony of Autumn, unlike the sparkly happy whistling birds of Spring, are more expressive of life and its shenanigangs. In a solemn sort of way, it is more beautiful - no two drops are the same size and no two drops fall the same way.
If you listen very carefully, you can hear a million stories - some spoken, some yelled, some pleaded - all at once. Roads and streets, themselves cracks of a city, lined with cracked bricks, wet stone and tired asphalt. They bear witness to the million stories - planned, unforseen, pleasant or nauseating - unflinchingly alive and dead simultaneously, like a volcano under a deep ocean.
Relationships of all sorts formed, broken or mended on the streets are never spoken of until the Autumn, when the red-yellow leaves carpet them and the cold rain is blown upon them by the moody winds. That is when the city stones speak. That is Autumn's grand symphony. If only we'd listen...
All that can be heard is the rain.
The grand symphony of Autumn, unlike the sparkly happy whistling birds of Spring, are more expressive of life and its shenanigangs. In a solemn sort of way, it is more beautiful - no two drops are the same size and no two drops fall the same way.
If you listen very carefully, you can hear a million stories - some spoken, some yelled, some pleaded - all at once. Roads and streets, themselves cracks of a city, lined with cracked bricks, wet stone and tired asphalt. They bear witness to the million stories - planned, unforseen, pleasant or nauseating - unflinchingly alive and dead simultaneously, like a volcano under a deep ocean.
Relationships of all sorts formed, broken or mended on the streets are never spoken of until the Autumn, when the red-yellow leaves carpet them and the cold rain is blown upon them by the moody winds. That is when the city stones speak. That is Autumn's grand symphony. If only we'd listen...
