The
Racecourse
Do you walk dogs,
or do dogs walk you? That's what I was thinking. Swaying on those
swings – rusted and immaturely coloured with reds and blues. Those
creaky chains could resist the wind, but not my weight. I wasn't
swaying forwards and backwards, it was more of a side-to-side; my
mind was peaceful – simple. Childishly noticing the careless smoke
from my mouth, I pretended to be a dragon in the way that had always
been funny since I was little.
It was a heavily
coated dog, walking a heavily coated man. That's what it was. The dog
had a jovial bounce to his step – somewhat of a skipping child on
four legs. He was as fluffy and grey as the looming clouds. A dark
night threatened. The man tailed a rigid trail behind; he definitely
wasn't in control. I stared out to the mass of open space peering
closely at the hiding spots: trees that could hold dens or hills to
roll down. The Racecourse was so innocent and vague; there were fewer
things more sinister.
Guess who I felt
sorry for most, though? Those information signs that act so
self-importantly. They sit and tell you things, constantly - sat
gleaming their information to deaf ears and dull minds. Who was
really going to stop and hear them out in that kind of cold? Must be
hard to have a job. Or at least a boring one where you slave away the
majority of your waking life to a cause that isn't your own. Those
kinds of people probably cross through places like the The Racecourse
every day in an attempt at being punctual. I doubt they even stop to
look at the monotonous, striving, aimless field.
The signs should
probably quit their jobs. They won't, though, because they work to
live their ever extending life. You have to admire their persistence,
calling out to happily married couples romancing hand in hand –
clearly enjoying the rest of their lives so much more than the signs.
I wondered how old they were – when does a sign retire, anyway?
So many leaves on
the ground from the time of year. Some of the leaves had a youthful
shade of white spread over them as if trying to dye their 'greying'
hair. Hiding from their own mortality. Brown must be a dull colour
for a leaf; morbid and dry. Sometimes the wind would carry them
speedily along as if chasing a hearse: 'Take me with you' they'd
whisper in the despair of the night. At first they lose their tree,
and then the death of darkness has to plague them, destroying their
fruitless attempts at being innocent and pure. When the scythe
strikes, The Racecourse wins.
I wonder if the dog
made his way home? I bet the man got enough exercise. I made my own
way home before dark; it's not quite my time, yet.
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