The Back Alleys and Cities of our fears
The music that plays from the dark, back alleys of our youth beckons us. It allows us to remember who we are and who we were.
We are all woven together by the backstreets thread.
We make mistakes. We fuck up. We say we're sorry. We plug on and pump quarters in the parking meters of our time commitments.
The street below beckons. The steam from the sewer reminds us of all that is unpleasant in this life - but the thin grate of the vent reminds us that we are only steps away from inhabiting those dark, dank, sulphuric places.
The sky cracks a cold November gray - bitter, blackly tinted and unforgiving. The cold comes hard in the evening, and even starts to sting in the late afternoon as the wind strips away our posturing.
We can't pretend to understand the layout of the loud, stinking streets - we just plod onward and pretend we know where we are going.
The human spirit is a closed deli on main street. Boarded up, tired and stripped of colour.
But in the same streets, and in those dark alleys - there is another uprising beginning that we may not see.
It is one that we, in our selfish lives, may never be a part of. We can only be thankful for the time we have spent at the feet of these beautiful but haunting skyscrapers.
The traffic lights illuminate the shadows of what we once were, and the pace at which we forget.
