Helen Ramsay

The near absence of the sun baths the sidewalks in a rose gold tint that twinkles off the bronze embedded into the framework of the city. Names archaic mingle with those still hot for the magazine press. Natives pay no attention to the starry paths; casually trending where foreign eyes strain to capture. Music of human voices crescendo flooding out of every restaurant as the harmony of the city makes its daily oscillation from the mumble of the day to the excitement of the night. A birthday wish is made that their future lies in this city; while another birthday is celebrated to the peak of expectations, because there is someone who cares. The stars from the pavement twinkle in all eyes that have a dream or a lover, or both. It will not be long before the stars in the eyes of the lover are swallowed by a black hole, but the dream will fan the flames of hope for many more years. There is no telling if the valley lit by flashing signs will ever be home for the aspirations of the child. Sometimes it is and sometimes the twinkling just dims into dusk, that’s just how the city is. Dusk, setting over the city like a blanket, not muting but amplifying the life, severing as a catalyst for licentious decisions that they will only pretend to regret. Time passes like cars on the freeways, the veins of the city, and as the morning peaks in the night, only the clocks notice that rush hour is nearly over. Veins soon to be clogged with foggy thoughts as their owners wait for the multitude of vehicles to make a movement, any movement at all. If only it were as far away as it seemed, because to everyone with the sky in their eyes, that was the only city that could exist, the city filled with dreams. Darkness if far from interminable, although it appears as though no harm is seen in pretending. Pretending that youth will come in an endless supply and sleep is nothing more than a myth from an old nursery rhyme. However, when the floor of the city starts to shimmer, and it smiles once more at the opposite end of the sky, the rest of the world no longer holds the illusion of being a far off memory. The honking of horns lose their charm and a birthday wish goes into hibernation behind a modest hemline, a sharp jacket and a neatly pressed collar.