The city is still awake.
I came home a little early today, having found myself dashing for my last bus home every other night this week. I've been working on a paper, which has been "almost done" for quite some time now. Funny, that is. The percentage of its lifespan that a project spends in the "almost done" phase probably exceeds that of any other phase. Except, of course the "yeah, I've really been meaning to get started on that" phase.
Dutifully typing away on my laptop as my train home rocketed through tunnel after tunnel, it didn't occur to me that she would still be awake when I got home.
But she is. From the vantage point of my 23rd-floor apartment, I can see her in all her beauty...
A gemstone. A vast, multifaceted blanket of brilliance. The phrase "a thousand points of light" comes to mind, and then a part of my memory wags its finger at the thought, telling it to go away because of some vague association with President Bush... what was that all about anyway? Another fleeting and forgotten catch-phrase for a fleeting and forgotten catch-thought, which probably changed the world in some irreparable way before it was forgotten.
The cars on the expressway below add their headlights and taillights to the spectacular cityscape. I was going to say dazzling, but really it isn't. The city exhibits her brilliance in many ways -- sometimes dazzling like the brilliance of a diamond, but sometimes deeply and subtly, like the mysterious cloudy lustre of the opal.
Off in the distance, islands of flashing strobes and neon lights mark pachinko parlors, a mating call to all the burnt-out businessmen who crave that kind of mindless sensory stimulation.
Below me, the lonely river plays its games, catching the orange light of a corner streetlamp and turning it into a shower of glimmering sparks floating on the water, seen by no one but me.
Like a very old string of Christmas lights with several odd-colored replacement bulbs, the occasional blue, red, or green light can be seen, but for the most part... white.
Oh, what amazing things the city does with white. In her hands, white is not a color but an entire medium for expression. The orderly yellow-white lights on that building there, with the soft shadows, bespeak a comfortable, structured, nurturing life for the families who live there. Off to the right, powerful industrial lamps give off a cold, harsh, impersonal, stern light suitable for doing construction work or loading heavy things onto trucks. Down and to the left, a dim, orange-tinted white glow rises up from obscured streetlamps, lighting an old and seldom-used street. Off in the distance, on the side of the mountain, the white lights carry a slight yellowish cast, a faraway field of pinpoints that feels like it came out of a fairy tale.
By the time I've written this, the city has already yawned a few times and is fluffing its pillow. Every time I look, more lights have gone out. Soon the traffic lights will switch to flashing red, and only taxis will be seen crawling the streets.
And the amazing thing is, the individuals who comprise this enormous, living, breathing being, .. are oblivious to it. The city goes through her day like a well-conducted symphony -- the carefully-orchestrated fourth movement is coming to an end right now -- and every day is played out according to the score. Granted, there are nuances of expression in the way each day is executed, and every listening brings out new subtleties and developments. But the individual people who drive their cars and bicycles through the city and turn out their lights at bedtime, are oblivious to the fact that they are just cells in the bloodstream of a mighty organism far larger than themselves.
Like the small puppy dancing around and nipping at its master's heels as the old man slowly and steadily trudges down the street, the lives of the people in the city move too fast for them to notice the slow dance of the city around them.
And yet, the symphony of the city dances frenetically like a sea of roiling flames, in comparison to the serene, majestic mountain behind it. Unmoving, deeply in thought, the great dark mass behind the light show watches silently. The moods of the mountain shift slowly across the seasons, and it cannot be troubled by the fickle whims of people and cities. We may drive over it, build on it, and tunnel through it, but like flies on a horse's back, the mountain can barely be troubled to notice.
After all, where will we be in ten million years? Long gone and forgotten.
Where will the mountain be? Right here. Deep in thought.
And on that note, I'll get back to writing the thrilling conclusion to my robotics paper.
