I try to find inspiration among the falling leaves of my life, trying to look past all that's coming down and apart around me.  Just for a few moments, those leaves soaring past my window are free, released from the grip of the branches and flying through the air; following, being guided by the wind, effortlessly.  But I can't help but see them fall to the ground, crushed and decaying.  Is life nothing more than a struggle for freedom that, once attained, lasts but a while before you're forced back to the ground again? 

      I walk through the big city, and it's cloudy with a little bit of rain, as it always seems to be when I'm here, no matter what time of year it is, and the wind is blowing harshly.  The trees here have already been stripped of their leaves, and it seems that here there are still jobs to be had as the people hustle past.  There are plenty of distractions: the skyscrapers touching the clouds, the bright lights and giant video screens, the taxis hurrying by, buses' horns blowing.  But all I hear is the crunch of the leaves below my feet and the only thing that steals my gaze for more than a mere second is the tiny sparrow and its mate searching for food in what little spot of vegetation there is along the concrete sidewalk; the tiny birds struggling to make it through another day, just like all of us.  Blank stares of the passengers on the train or ferry, going home after a desk-ridden day at the office after the sun's long been set, fill no void, bring no inspiration except to stay away from that life as best as I can.  But the tiny birds, I have to stop and look.  Maybe I'm strange.  Maybe I'm just really lame.  But it's the truth.

     This big city has nothing to offer me.  It's in the solace of the trees that I find my rhythm and flow.  And maybe there's an opportunity there in the concrete floors and walls, maybe I'm missing out on something, but all I can think is, bring that opportunity here, amongst the blades of grass and leaves beneath my bare feet and then I can settle for it.  But trade this green for everything paved, and trade this air for a stifled room?  I may be forced to do it, but I don't want to.  And that's probably what all those emotionless faces on the subway said before life got too real.  And it's beginning to get too real for me, as I find myself standing closer and closer to the edge, and I'm damn scared of heights. 

      Thus is the dull life of the human.  To awake to the alarm, the jolting noise, not the sun or the birds' songs, and to spend most hours of the day directed by someone who claims to have more rights than you and dictates your paycheck.  Distracted by the chatter, by the price check, by the bills and the banks, by the cookie-cutter education we all supposedly need.  And in the meantime, our bodies ache because we don't have time to take care of ourselves and we get so bored and boring because there's no mental stimulation, just the same old every day.