Central Park gets one post all by itself. As noisy as it gets in New York City, once you step into the grounds, it quietens down, fading away as if the trees act as a filter for the urban mess. (They actually really do)
As it was still cold af, most of the trees were still bare. Some of the streams were frozen, and the park was almost silent as the day moved into twilight, casting long shadows across the pavements. The air felt fresh, cool, and crisp against our skin. For the first time in the entire day, I did not mind the chill.
The Plaza was also slightly underwhelming. I read about it, and watched it loom into view on so many books and movies. The Legendary Plaza, where it will be every girl’s dream to get married. I can see the old grandeur charm that comes with it, but in comparison to how I felt about Central Park, it doesn’t even come close.
My dream was always to see Central Park in autumn, in its golds and reds. Spring and autumn have always been fascinating seasons for me. They are the transition stages, when the elements jumble up together and create daily uncertainty. The earth and organisms get all confused, because “is it warm enough yet?”. You see the flowers start to bloom, almost peeking through the frost initially, before exploding in color and breathing life into the grey and lifeless. Even the metal and concrete seem to come alive with the rising temperatures, reflecting the yellows and blues around them.
And when Autumn comes around, it feels like a melancholic sigh, a bittersweet ending to a beautiful summer. All good things must come to an end, and it ends in an explosion of color, like a ballet’s finale, or a symphony’s last song.
As swiftly as it came, it went.
One day soon, I will see you in autumn, New York City.