I love watching the swans. How they glide over the water, seemingly effortless, beautifully silent. How they add grace to any location or scenery.
Yet, their beauty hides danger; they can be very vicious, and when they attack, the outcome is most painful. Broken bones, loud shrieks, feathers flying about. Brutality in its rawest form.
A perfect metaphor for life.
I sometimes wonder if the swans know of their beauty. If they carry themselves to hide their own pain and sorrow, to keep the ruthless world muffled and let only the pleasant shine through.
Lavender rain keeps falling as I make my way to the park lake. The streets shine and glow; the city sighs, its breath forms misty clouds. The gaslights shine dimly, muffled like a piano sonata being played in another room.
Quiet, but not silent. Pale, but not colourless.
When did I begin to see the faintest hint of colours again? I was convinced they had been taken from me long ago, when I was still a child, and the world was still warm and