a/n: Now this isn't a poem, but I wanted to share it with y'all.
Enjoy. Xx
I saw the roads today, Tatiana.
The fleeting landscape of blurried travels, pixelated itself right in front of my eyes, and where earlier, the tunes of Harry Styles and Greta Van Fleet stole the focus of my dwindling attention span, the unfamiliar streets of my very much familiar journey, definitely hogged the spotlight of the very same attention span- not dwindling this time.
It was a conscious decision, to ditch the comfort of music and giving in to my perceived boredom of my surroundings; for what could possibly be that interesting in the scenes that flash by like a flurrying gust of wind, disappearing into the hindsight before you even have the chance to soak them in?
I was wrong. So wrong.
The surprising vibrancy struck me with the first glance out of the window. It was a group of friends, with beer bottles in their hands, each one a striking contrast to the others, but bearing a certain kind of semblance that connected each one of them. They were laughing about something I don't know, probably never will, but those couple of seconds were enough for me to enact an unconcious pretention of being one of their group.
I saw the buildings. Really saw them this time.
The bricks that held them up- those inanimate structures, whose bustling crowd of people- those in it, outside it, or just walking around it, provisioned every single brick with a meaning and infused in them a sense of purpose of their existence; the feeling being very much mutual.
With the passage of time and the corresponding circumvolution of the car tyres, the urbanisation was slowly fading away, the transition occuring like turning the pages of a well organized flipbook; page by page, landscape by landscape.
There was this little girl, her dirty brown hair tied up into pigtails as she tried, quite unsuccessfully I might add, to seat herself on her father's bicycle. Or atleast, I presume it was her father's, for the tired man behind her looked on with an adoration that could only belong to a father, at her daughter's failed attempts as she smiled brightly, a look of pure happiness on both of their faces, as she tried once more.
The rusticity was finally beginning to set in as the green pastures of wheat fields started making an appearance. They were devoid of human activity at this time of the day, the members of the families probably having their lunch in the warm spring sun.
I noticed a couple of houses, the traditional village houses, the ones made with dried mud and unburnt bricks, whose layout was the very depiction of the simplicity of rural life, where the modernization had not invaded in with its growing complexity of technology. It was civilization in its rawest, truest form and it was beautiful.
Everything was, actually.
Nearer to our destination, I saw a man crying in the cortyard of his fleeting house, slumped over, head in his hands, crying over God knows what. I felt sad. I couldn't hear him, but his heartbroken face was enough to make me hear the sobs that he was most definitely letting out and feel a fraction of his sorrow in my heart.
Those were a couple of frames that struck with me among the array of so many others, and it was a journey to look back to.
I may not specifically remember this journey, I don't already, but I know it will stay with me; like the distant rhythmic familiarity of an unremembered song.
I saw the roads today Tatiana, and every bump was alive.
Thoughts?
