Okay. Let’s call it a place. People and things are too
hard to talk about, but a place is more vague. A place is less personal. You
can walk away from it, but still go back and visit someday.
This place feels familiar and strange at the same time. It’s
a city, and during the day it’s bustling with people who have purpose in their
stride, but at night the darkness explodes with gunshots and at dawn my alarm
is the sound of sirens. It snows a lot in this place but I actually kind of
love the snow because it blankets the city in this white perfection—at least
until the snow melts into dirty slush that piles up on the curbs.
I’ve memorized the map of this city. The roads haven’t
changed in years and I know the street names by heart, but new shops have started
popping up everywhere and just the other day I visited my favorite café only to
find that it, too, was closing soon. There was nothing special about their
coffee, but I really liked its down-to-earth atmosphere. And the view from the
table in the corner.
Most of the friends that I met here years ago have
already gotten new jobs and are trickling out of town, but I haven’t had any
reason to leave. It’s beautiful, this city, it really is. But for some reason
every time I try to take a picture of the skyline, the camera just can’t seem
to capture what I see. It’s as if this place is cursed with a beauty that can’t
last.
I know I should leave this place. I want to run off to
the West coast where the skies are always sunny and the cities are alive, but
the truth is, this place is my home. I want to run off, but there is nowhere to
run, because this place isn’t even a place. It’s the past.
And no matter how many days or months or years I put
between it and myself—no matter how much I don’t belong there anymore—I’ll
always live in this place. Despite the gunshots, despite the snow, despite my
missing café... I will always live in the past.
-B.
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