Viewpoint: Spire on top of the domes
I see everything from up here. I can see a man, a tiny speck in the in the vast expanse of the city, descending down a stairway of dark mahogany wood, engraved with carvings that tell a million little stories about its creators – the beautiful little flower of a perfectionist, the chipped off edge that speaks of a careless passer-by. I can see the sky change colour from yellowish-orange to the deep purple of the night and I can see the stars change their positions and deceive those who believe in them. A hundred little details, each one just as important. I can see the couple walking to the crystal theatre, arm in arm, evoking in me pangs of loneliness. I can see multi-coloured lamps that hang at the doors of the fruit stalls – a row of lights flickering to life as the sun sets behind the mountains. Through the yellow haze, I can see myself reflected by the beautiful, silvery dome upon which I rest. It is not something that matters to me. My shape and my material has nothing to do with the buzzing city that comes alive every morning like a caterpillar emerging from its cocoon. What matters are the tiny glimpses into the lives of those around me. They are the details that don’t really matter, except for whom they do.