The Rhythm
Sitting at a window watching as the crowds in the street passing along, I see more than the people rushing to and fro taking part in the large, noisy throng.
It is near evening. On their road people are hastening home, at such hour some even hustling for cash rather than a tome.
The majority have payed no attention neither to the fresh grass at the step, nor the childish greenness above the stump.
It starting raining, I sit here in the instant service restaurant watching, thinking that some day I will probably turn into an aging fellow, like a horse wearing blinders, keen to hit the top, racing ahead seeing nothing but the finish line. As years flow by, I will gain fame and fortune as well as a devoted family, and then I will keep racing on for the need of more achievements; I will miss something, thinking of classmates and good old friends collected and then neglected, of my study full of books with uncut leaves, of the first faltering steps of my little babies, of the tears of my beloved I have no chance to wipe away. All these result from my mere vain pursuit of success in my hurry.
Drawing back, I get from the quiet of the hidden retreat the best view of everything that occurs, while the folks who are going pushing, justling along merely see their small bit of the street. I sit here with my eyes closed, listening to out of the rain the rhythm harped and composed by Aeolus.
—— Yukikaze Studio ~ Department of Solemn Men, Metrosexual Yuan ——
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