There was a time when I walked these streets every day, saying goodbye. It made me both happy and sad at once: it made the city feel more marvelous, more mine. But it isn’t mine. No city is. I’m not sure if places can belong to people, but it seems I was not meant to have that kind of security. I have no home. No roots.
Threads are my only anchor – but they are almost inevitably to people, and people are not static. People move away – they change, they dance, and while doing so, sometimes the fragile bonds break. Or stretch, until they are worn very thin by time. In the end, you almost don’t notice them splitting until it’s too late. My friends, who shared their tears in early mornings when it seemed that dawn might never come again, are houses in the only city I will ever live in, my heart.