Scribblings

A Scarred Horizon

When visiting the city, a strange sense of wonder mingles with a tainted string of anxiety. As the heavy suburbs sidle past, buildings begin to stretch into the sky, because just like the people, they step on each other’s toes to fit in. The cramped collision of life is modern and advanced, inherently safe, yet gritty and uncertain, smeared with a film of decay. The structures look rickety and uncertain, swaying in the breeze.
Nestled into the roots of a lazy new city, is stone work webbed together with the ghosts as firm as any glue.
Tourist’s photographs of structuress which might as well be memorials for the unmarked graves, painted gold in a glittered city which pretends its foundations aren’t crushing the bones of everyone they stepped on to advance.

At night, to look over the city is to look over a dedicated mimic of nature. I think it’s ironic, the way the city’s lights sprawl and spread in an industrial milky way, and peaks at a skyline which hangs beneath a ragged dark curtain. The sky appears stretched thin in a weary, struggling grey, as it is robbed of its light.
It’s ironic, that we light the ground with stars, to paint away the ones already in the sky.

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