The city with its many neon lights draws many who seek the excitement and highs of the urban life. One could find a disco every two blocks. All night long, the music blasts and the dance floor rocks.The city promises the pleasures of five senses.
Now imagine yourself as a bird flying high above the city. What you see would be the busy city folks running around like little ants. Everyone just had one more thing to buy, one more place to go, and one more thing to do. Who among the busy folks would have time to stop and have a conversation with a random stranger at a bus stop?
Occasionally, the tiny ants would stop along their track to exchange a few politely distant remarks with one another. High above the ground, their conversations are only whispers, whispers about leaving behind hometowns without job prospects, whispers about dreams of fame and making it rich, or simply whispers about which brand-name store at the corner of the 72nd street and the 13rd avenue is throwing the sale of the year.
Now imagine yourself as one of the dreamers in this big city. This is where you are, on the outskirt of a great big city that hummed its many whispers. Each night, you dreams of giving the greatest concert of the century. Your guitar would sing many quick crescendos under the caress of your fingers, and crowd below the stage would just be mesmerized. You would be at the center of the creation, your music connecting you to the hearts of your fans.
Yet each evening, you pass by many identical houses on the outskirt of the city along 99th avenue after a long day of meaningless work. It is as if after one too many roads has been built, the city has run out of alphabets to give a street a proper name. Perhaps, when just one too many migrant other than yourself has moved into this growing urban sprawl, your name would be forgotten, and your presence would become nothing more than a serial number, too. Each day, you hangs on to your precious dream by a thin thread of hope, yet your music has never been heard above the collective humming of the big city.
You hang on as hard as you could, until it dawns on you, that the one to shine on the stage would never be you. There is always someone brighter, someone better. You are but a tiny speck of sand among the multitude. Your heart is stricken with terror that you would be swallowed alive by the big great city.
So you pass by the empty stage with a guitar you would never get to play. A demon whispers in your ear. There is just one too many.
So you keep on walking without a purpose, past rows of empty seats. Your songs would not be heard. A demon whispers in your ears. There is just one too many.
The demon whispers in your ears, "you need to do something so your life would be on the right track again. You need to kill off that one too many nameless strangers along your path, so that your life would be on the right track again, so that your life would be on the right track again." On this particularly day, you make a loud bang to declare your existence in the uncaring universe, and become yet just another Cain.
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