The city's in a rush. It has big strong arms pressing at one's back, propelling its captives ever onward; faster and faster – the traffic, the trams, the pedestrians, the store holders, the jammed sidewalks – rushing, pushing, shoving, demanding.
At the end of these big strong arms, the city has huge-fingered hands. Fingers that clutch at its prisoners, deep within, dragging contentment out from the inside – forcing one to need more – more food, more clothes, more products, more shoes, flashy jewellery, new hairstyles, fancy accessories, warm scarves, woollen hats, tasty treats, aromatic coffee, delectable confectionary…. It sucks the soul out each victim, that deep-rooted acceptance and contentment of one's own worth and status, surroundings and sense of 'being'. And its large hands wave for one to come, luring its slaves into wanting the 'more' – obtain it, acquire it, indulge it! "Take me, eat me, buy me, you must have me" the city teases one's tantalised sight and vulnerably-heightened senses.
It's exhausting. Even as one reassures oneself of contentment in one's simplistic lifestyle, still the battle for consumerism wages violently, relentlessly. One must fight hard to remain a mere observer, as, before long, one can find oneself a participant, however reluctant and unwilling one began.
This is the ugliness of the beauty of the city.
'Being still' is not as easy within the pull in the hub of the city.
Even within the busy city parks and gardens, surrounded by sky-scraping office and apartment blocks and busy main streets, none are resting. All are rushing. Nobody strolls – everyone's briskly exercising or rushing to the next appointment.
Stillness seems a crime to be frowned upon – a luxury afforded by none of the affluent business-people in the pressed suits and fancy clicking shoes that echo along the cement walkways.
The city doesn't wait for volunteers. One doesn't willingly sign-up to be shoved along. One would be more content to sit for hours, zoned out. But one mustn't stay more than an hour, the parking-lane becomes a busy motorway from 4pm – a clearway where no-one can stop – everyone must join the endless stream of moving, rushing, pushing, shoving, demanding – as the workers, the victims, the 'swallowed' battle bumper-to-bumper traffic in their frantic eagerness to get out of the same city that lures them back the very next morning to do it all again, and again, and again.
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