This is a descriptive landscape I did, working under a set of guidelines for a sort of assignment. It's very cheery, probably because I was in a cynical mood while writing it. Please don't take as a reflection of my views, it's just a landscape I was exploring.
The city owns me, I am but another rat running through its grey grim intestines, scampering to get higher, to get UP. I know no other world but it’s grey harshness, which dominates the landscape like a squatting toad, crushing a noble people’s beauty beneath its weight. Its skyscrapers like claws reaching greedily to possess the sky as if the Earth is not enough. Its capitalists peering down from offices above, and seeing naught but pearly white, their consciences at rest because of their wilful ignorance. They are but its puppets, they created it and now it pulls their strings. Its bleak misery gnawing at their compassion, their humanity.
Ahh, greed. I see through its glass and concrete, its metal and scrap, through to the urban monster’s heart. A pale pulsing green fungus spread over the city, kept beating by the blind faith of its followers. The economists call it the profit motive, they hide it in graphs and figures but I see it for what it truly is, greed. Their fancy jargon justifies the homeless they leave on the streets, the starving, begging on the pavement and the sick, coughing and wheezing.
The shades of grey, blurring, bleeding, darkening. The greys of morality indistinguishable from the greys of the cityscape. The charcoal haze of pollution, its reflection in the huge glass buildings and the black of bitumen, one of the many dark ‘open air’ tunnels once called streets. The urban monster knows two colours, white and black, taunting me with hints of contrast, of something different. Its face leering at me from the shadows, feeding off my false hope, watching, waiting for me to die quietly, waiting for the small spark inside me to go out.
Order they say as they walk in lines, striding in time. If one of its flock had an original thought I would consider not choking on my own jagged words, would consider not putting myself out of my misery. Instead I weigh up eternal darkness against eternal blackness, void against void, winning by losing. Originality has become a commodity regulated by it’s most fanatic followers, a paradox which has collapsed on itself leaving a hole where self-expression once lived.
Here I stand, dependent on an infection which will eventually kill me. The city breathing air into my lungs as it tightens the noose around my neck. It’s incurable. You can see it in the prole’s soulless eyes, their gaunt cheeks and wordless cries, it’s too far gone now and yet they stay. The city is running us into the ground, my only hope is to brave the beating sun and sand inland. I must choose between fire and filth, be forged into survival or death or be rotted into a craven. This city holds no loyalty over me, I shall leave as the others have done. Slowly the city is filtering those like me out until all that is left is the curdled milk at the bottom.