This morning, in the “wee small” hour of daybreak, I woke up with a start for reasons unknown to me, and found myself in a world of blissful serenity. A brush of morning light found its way through the blinds, and filled my bedroom with its faint, rosy colour. I rose to its beckoning.
Stepping out onto the balcony, I slipped into a sea of chilling, refreshing morning air. The sky was painted with pastel colours that were so lovely to behold (my eyes in the past month have grown tiresome to buildings that were too tall and too dense, streets that were too narrow, and lights that burnt too bright and too late into the night). A blue that was so thin, as if diluted with spring water; wisps of clouds varnished with the lightest hues of orange and pink. Everything was so quiet, yet not in an unsettling way. A silence that was tranquil, innocent, and content. The city was like a mild-tempered baby, on the verge of a pleasant dream, about to wake up to the warm, welcoming embrace of her parent.
The financial district in which I have taken abode for a month, the place they call the “Downtown Core” – was now deprived of its ceaseless flow of metropolitan hustle and bustle. The skyscrapers that were glooming over my condominium, had always seem somewhat intimidating during the day – now they looked harmless. The empty but well-lit office spaces were modern, neat, and full of promises. “How I love this city,” I thought at that moment, feeling as if I had became a part of a tv show enacting an exciting life in an exciting city, “How I love living in crazy, big cities.”
Drawing a deep breath, I was intoxicated by the morning breeze. The airs were yet to be tainted by the smokes of the day. I looked yonder till my gaze met the lakeshore. How gloriously had the lake glittered under the morning glow! A colour as sweet as an artisan-crafted dessert, I could almost taste it on the tip of my tongue. Beneath my feet and beyond the railings, the height was dazzling and disorienting, nevertheless strangely satisfying. I suppose we all have some primitive longing for heights and still dream of flying. On the eave of the opposite building, stood a pigeon, lonely and motionless. Was it still asleep? Or had it just woken up, adjusting to the world that lay waking beneath its feet, just like what I was doing now?
From not afar, the bells at the Old City Hall sang – it was a quarter to six o’clock.