The rains seemed nicer last year. Or the year before, when I didn’t have a scooter and when I used to walk. The rains weren’t around long, or if it was I’d never notice. No, I was lost even if I knew where I was heading. Day dreams were the only place with any direction.
The streets were never the same, no matter how carefully I sought them out for their speed and ability to cut through the city. The orange street lights finally found a worthy canvas in the glistening tar roads that seemed to flow faster than the traffic on them.
Neon lights find beauty only when the world shines back their annoying, screaming colors back at them. It gave you less reason to read them, not that anyone did anyway. Traffic burrs and melts like the thoughts that stream through my mind. It blurs because there’s no one out, everyone’s going home. The city before it blooms, it’s streets coats my sandals with dirt.
Careful not to drag your feet, the pavements are more slippery than usual, and the smell of good earth, the mix of leaves, branches and the swaying of black trees might leave you in a daze. With so much like some landscape from water paint. The droplets on the leaves and walls live precariously, ready to fall and disappear, a good reminder to carry on.
You should always wait for power cuts, you’ll see warmth through windows as human figures crunch up around light trying to stay away from the world outside. You won’t see much so savor it like dew when afternoon comes.
The rains where nicer, I’d go home, maybe not my home, but all I had to do was listen to a voice lined like crystal, smiling, demanding “What are you thinking about?”