Menacing metropolis, righteous rural

            Stranded on the grey concrete island, I did a 360 spin and observed the madness unfolding around me. Checkered flags atop yellow glaciers crept along the blacktop rivers on either side of the island, while people danced and dodged them, crossing from the mainland to my tiny island and back. I tried crossing, but suddenly the glaciers rushed downstream and I stopped suddenly, my foot inches from the black, murky depths. I blink. Suddenly my head was throbbing, blood pulsating in my ears as I observed the scene around me now. The illusion gone, horns blared, lights flashed, cars raced down the street. The occasional screech of wheels could be heard from blocks away. I inhaled sharply; it was too much for me. The other people, strutting on the sidewalks, easily ignored the loud falafel vendors on the corners, whereas I got stuck on the island by the blinking orange hand of fate, let alone evade the beckoning commercialism.

            Blink again. It’s so loud. Not the cars and passersby now, the silence. A soft wind tickles my cheeks and I feel the heat on my neck. Turning, I squint my eyes as Phoebus’s chariot crosses the sky and enters my vision. I wish for a second that I could have taken some sunglasses with me from the shop that moments before had contributed to the ache of my crown. The breeze continues whipping playfully. The silence dies and a soft rustling begins. The tall golden wheat that surrounds me follows the wind as if God is tugging at their invisible marionette strings. A mockingbird leisurely flutters past me, serenading me with a cheerful song as I breathe in the crisp, clean air. My pain alleviated, I can think clearly with a clear mind and focused senses.

            Look down. Foot-shaped depressions in the grass seem to lead nowhere. I can only imagine who the footsteps might belong to, who I may be following, whose shoes I’m filling. This, right here – where I am right now – is where thinking happens. Theories are proven. Laws are made. Ideas are developed. No distractions can demand my attention, the only taxis present here are the Anemoi, giving save passage to a butterfly or a fallen leaf. Never before have I heard that Sir Isaac Newton developed his three laws on the F-train between 71^st Avenue and 36^th Street. Nor has it ever occurred to me that Galileo might have redesigned the telescope on a walk along Sunset Boulevard.

            Looking down the trodden path of footsteps, I notice the trail seems infinite, meandering about left and right, but continuing on nonetheless. The only way to be sure is to stay the course, don’t stray. The melody that the bird sings is tattooed on my eardrums and loops repeatedly inside my brain, to be transcribed only for musicians to play and all to hear. The wheat, though it dances, pauses for a moment that I might blink quickly and save its image in the hard drive of my mind. The chariot in the sky rides off, its horses galloping into the horizon, leaving me blind to the path I follow.

So many uncertainties when walking in the countryside, yet certainty lies in the cityscape. I may not know what comes next in the countryside, but I know for certain the city can’t be as good.