London

A short depiction of London as a living organism.

Sighing and quickening. Dashing and gasping. The streets are alive. They are breaking down in a tumultuous concert of sounds. Feet are moving towards unknown destinations. Whisperings and murmurs drown out the clocks striking another hour, a sign that time is an unstoppable tailor. He keeps weaving entangled cloths and resilient fabrics using the reel of memory. Cobbles are shaking under the pace of hopeless wanderers. They try to find their way in an unwavering city. This is the cruel judge who holds the fate of its inhabitants in its grey, polluted hands. This is what it means. What it means to live in a society where disorder embraces the ordinary. They collide. Cosmopolitan thrills. Precarious desires dictated by consumption. Omnibuses and motor cars are servants. They must obey thousands of human beings, eager to put their filthy hands on their share of life. Raindrops blur the varnish of brand-new promises, of cutting-edge discoveries. Soaked layers are veils upon pounding pavements. The weather is still transient, uncontrollable. It's never late. It's never right. The stormy breakthrough of that day is still a vivid flash, in the collection of my mnemonic store.
Portions of sky were pouring down. Every porch became a shelter, a temporary refuge to hide from the menacing tempest. Clouds went on holding their hands like in a sectarian ritual. There was music coming from above. Drums were perforating the tender casing. It was a tribal tribute to sundry pagan gods. In the meantime, earthly beings awakened from the slumber of easy routine. The city was in a chaotic mood. Somehow life had to go on, the Big Ben's knell seemed to say so. Gusts were turning the pages of unread newspapers thrown on the slippery pavements. Information became a muddy puddle. It was all a celestial joke. Nothing else. After all, it was a metaphor of life. We humans have to pay attention when walking through the insidious jungle. Hail can hurt. But we can still avoid it. Raindrops wash and never drown. They don't do harm. The real peril is the lightning. Sooner or later, we'll hear its crack, its striking noise. At that point, we can only hope that it's a mere thunder colliding with the atmosphere. Only a wakeup call. But things can even get worse.
Shivers start dragging dread down our cold backs when hurricanes creep in the desolate mire of existence . They take and never give back. They suck sap and never reinvigorate. They smash truths and build unconsciousness. We have to abide this punishment because we based our lives on temporary errands and made ourselves quarries of materialism. Why don't we point our worn eyeballs to the riveting city? Each spire, each archery bears a strong piece of history. Just stop and behold. Dare you not forswear the urban treasure. A never empty goldmine.

Author's Note

Please leave your comment and let me know what you think.

Reviews

[Italo Ferrante]

@Rose thank you so much. Yeah that's a good idea. :)

[Rose]

Wow I'm must say this is really good your descriptions are really amazing though just a small suggestion you can break it down to paragraphs for readers to read it easily and avoid confusion