Sitting up in my window staring at the dusty street. The air was thick always, even late at night no matter what season. The hum of the traffic was also a constant, yes even late at night. I used to sit on the ledge of my bedroom window and look out into the distance, where I knew the sea was. Yeah I had my own slice of the ocean view that I could see in the day time and hear its gentle writhing at night. I imagined the ocean was changing sides as it slept. I loved that ocean, in a city full of people, where vagrants set up home absolutely on every piece of land they could find, the ocean was untouchable, open space straight into eternity. The ocean, my ocean, was also available to one and all to stroll, to walk, to simply space out as I often did on the beach. It had a distinct smell, salty, sharp and desperation, well may be it was just me the desperation part.
It was a love and hate thing I had going on with that wretched city. I loved it as that was all I ever knew. The city was like a big bad wolf, an abusive lover, and I knew how to live with it. I also knew where to find comfort and when to run and where to hide if the lover turned nasty and cruel. After all it was home. On some level you accepted what it did to you, it made you feel tough, it made you grow up and it did all that by crushing all your dreams, one dream at a time. But no sir not my dreams, I learned then not to dream at all, you could imagine things, but on a purely external level like good things could never happen to you. But mainly you watched on taking some sick pleasure in all that pain.Yeah the city made a masochist out of you.
I wanted out. As far back as I can remember, I wanted out. I would imagine Utopia (a place like paradise, full of light and love). A lush green haven, to heal my soul inside and out. A place to lick my wounds and set up camp. Where I could dream to my hearts content. I wanted to breath deep lung full of pure air, I wanted to sit on a sea shore that had crystalline waters that resembled life and not tears. I wanted to smell hope. I wanted it all. I would look back out of my window at the city of doom, as if from out looking in and envisioned what the end of the world would look like, it would probably look like this city on any given day.
My city, I am my city, I am a masochist and I cannot help it. I am now where I longed to be, I am in the Utopia I imagined all along. I was so sure I would never make it. The city wouldn't let me go I thought to myself, but it did, but did it really? I carry it in here where my soul lives, I am cynical, I look all around me and grab at sunshine, not believing that this will last. I breath like a greedy child, I take in pure air like I cannot trust I will get my next lungful. I take picture after picture after picture of crystalline waters and crushed pearl sands, just in case I go back into the grey desperation and these pictures are all I have as a proof that once I was here, in this Utopia and I did not just dream it all up.
