• _rainfrost_ 58w

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 3: ���������� ��������

    Put my heart back into my empty chest where the sounds of this innocent village I live in, echoes. There's dust in my lungs, that I've breathed standing on the city streets over years, selling coats of tweed. There's a blush and curve on my lips that I've earned, standing in the autumn fog, whenever I saw a pure smile on someone's lips. And there's a woodland of frolicking dreams in my green eyes.

    The city where I go, flecked with fierce and gentle hues, thrives in the hullabaloo of car-horns and distorted silence on the sidewalks. People hide their feelings beneath the cuffs of fake expressions, and the scapes drip in French poetry. I stand on the pedestrian streets all day, selling hope, so that people would feel warm.

    I leave my home at 9 in the morning. Today too, the village is bustling with the same homely pleasure. The kids are dancing in the velvet sunshine of fall and grown-ups are plattering sweetly. I talk to a baker who has a shop near my home, then leave for the city clutching a clear umbrella in my hands.

    I walk on the path, where heaths lie with their fall breath on both the sides. Some dandelion bushes are crocheted around at the edge of path. Slowly, the countryside path merges into city streets.

    I take out my umbrella, as the surreal beauty of this season embodies as drops of rain and flamboyant leaves rest on my umbrella top. The dusty path metamorphoses into cobblestone streets. A birdbath fountain perches in the middle of street, like a statue of innocent faith, where people are throwing coins and whispering their dreams to themselves, with their eyelids closed.

    Marble white buildings stand tall in a vintage fall, and ginkgo trees spread their golden hands out of the park walls to the street, golden pieces floating down to the black and white crossroads. I give a sideways glance to see a faded and pale Eiffel Tower, standing upright to the hoary sky.

    In this cold and crepuscular afternoon, the headlights are flickering through the mist like amber bunches of light. The shops with foggy windows and metallic sign boards whose Albescent white paint is chipping off, all align in a straight line with yellow lights coming out of them.

    My eyes rest upon a coffee shop with a bottle green door and cinnamon brown walls. Within it, there's a dainty brunette standing with a charming boy with golden blonde hair. The girl's eyes are glistering with a hazel shade of love, but his, as blank as fog manacling a beautiful sight. There's a beautiful tragedy in the bittersweet scent of coffee coming out of the shop, and there's a beautiful chicanery in a frangible affair.

    There's beauty in the way things mend; there's beauty in the way things break. Like, when gossamers of emotions tie two people at their first glance. Like, when memories try to hold on to the breaking bricks, when a castle's crumbling down. And I've always chosen to look at the beautiful side of things.

    I walk a little more and stand outside a florist's shop named "Champ libre Fleuriste", feeling an ounce warmer because of the bonfire burning merrily inside. I take the coats out and hang them in a line. I stand there as people pass by without noticing me and the coats waiting to wrap them in a warm embrace. The pigeons flutter to the walkway to peck at the crumbs of food. A man holding the leash of a white dog, with a brusque face; a newspaper seller looking contented because all his papers got sold; an auburn girl whose eyes look like they cried recently, walk past me.

    Slowly, the dim daylight disappears into a twilight lit by headlights of cars. My pochette has no money in it, and the tweed coats are still hanging there, though their warm hope is slowly splintering off.

    It's an another night when I'll just have a dry piece of bread on my plate. But afterall it's fall, deceitful and bittersweet. I'd paint my eyes again, with ample forest-green hope, and I'd hold a blue moon's light in my hands like a windfall. Maybe I'll have a heavy bag singing a happy jingle with me tomorrow. Nevertheless, my heart will always be filled with the echoes of the innocent village I live in, and the cobblestone streets where I've spent my life, selling fabric of hope.



    Inspiration: @eurusgrey :')

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