The sky was the color of sorrow that day—a soupy mixture of grey and melancholy that weighed the clouds down so you could almost reach out and touch them. But the city moved on, unfeeling. Unaware that the world was still revolving. The city moved on, unwelcoming. Filled with souls that were lost and searching for their own meanings, oblivious to the fact that at any moment the sky above might break open and pour down salty tears. Each soul with a face that told a story maybe no one wants to hear. But it’s easier that way—easier to walk briskly, eyes cast down, searching the sidewalks as though their futures might be found within the cracks.
If only that were so. If only answers truly were found in fortune cookies or sidewalk cracks. Then perhaps there wouldn’t be so many searching in all the wrong places for the answers to questions they can’t say out loud. If only answers truly were found in coffee grounds or horoscopes. Then maybe the sky wouldn’t mirror the feelings of so many hearts that day—heavy and unsure.
I tried to start with a setting, which turned out to be the city. Then I started describing it, or what was happening within it, but then it seemed to outgrow even that...so it seems it turned into something more searching and depressing.
ReplyDeleteDepressing, yes, definitely. I think one of the things that most interested me was the sentence about finding answers in coffee grounds or horoscopes. I'm not sure why, really. Perhaps it seemed like an honest concern, even something person to a character who might be narrating this. The first paragraph in particular feels very allegorical and a little melodramatic, as if it's trying too hard to mean. Maybe just describing the city itself, starting small with description can lead in an interesting direction.
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