A precious lesson I’ve learned in life is that nothing is ever black and white. Finding the full color spectrum is sometimes an arduous task, nonetheless in the realm of possibility, perhaps worthy of becoming a life mission.
There’s always something hidden, a secluded meaning, behind what meets the eye.
Gray skies and rainy days are disliked by most, but London is at its best in those conditions. The bleakness enhances the magic of the place somehow, as if sunshine and blue skies might break the spell this city has been under for centuries. This place has seen it all, and it shows its tired wisdom. Old and new, posh and grunge, pristine and grimy merge into an asynchronous substance out of time and space. Nothing seems to fit into a specific category, but somehow the incongruous nature of this place makes sense.
The grayness of the concrete streets, pavements, and brick walls provides the urban dwellers with a blank canvas. People in this city are painters who apply layer upon layer of texture and veneer to inanimate objects, street corners, and shop windows. Bleakness becomes alive and imbued with bubbling life energy. The things that at first sight appear unapproachable, uninteresting, and faded turn into dashing stage settings filled with props and the occasional pops of color. But what a pop of color that is. The array of hues is wide and ever-changing depending on the season and time of day; they range from the muted earth tones of the naked tree branches in late autumn to the reds and blues of the tube signs and decommissioned telephone booths.
London is a theater, and the people who walk its streets are the play’s heroes, villains, and stage directors.
Bleakness becomes
alive
and imbued with
bubbling life energy
Feelings of nostalgia and a refusal to grow up. Those are the thoughts that meandering through the London city streets conjure. It’s something about the rooftops, the chimneys, the bright yellow light of the clock towers. I feel transported into a Peter Pan fantasy where I can fly to touch the stars.
Walking along.
Thinking back about simpler times, when magic was real and pervasive, hiding around every corner. As if I was in the process of rediscovering innocence and wonder, I walk along the cobblestone streets of Covent Garden, in the direction of the river Thames. Longing to see its yellow light, eager to hear its chime and perceive the rush of dumbfounded amazement and youthful surprise. Seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days and then decades. Time ticks and runs out. Not here, no. Not today, in London, as I am gazing up at this majestic clock and feeling that the girl I once was and the woman I am now are not that different after all.
