I have lived in the city for seven years.
In the city, it is a bombardment of the senses. The breeze that drifts in through the cracked window carries with it the smell of a late night fryer; voices rise in comradely song, bolstered by the lingering effects of last call; the lamp lights illuminate lovers on a late night walk to catch the sunrise. The city is a cacophony of sounds: the neon buzzing of 24 hour shops juxtaposed with the lonely call of a distant train across the river. The jolting rumble of a string of motorcycles drowning out the lulling of a lone ukulelist. The city is energy. The city is excitement; there is always somewhere to go and someone to meet in the city, often just a few steps out your front door.
I grew up in the country. Where the clear air is like a cool glass of water to your lungs after a long drought. It carries with it the sweetest symphony of cicadas, crickets and spring peepers. The river runs steadily through the night while the fireflies blink their tempo. The country is harmony, it is reflection. It is the tickle of the minnows that nibble in the creek; it is simultaneously the sting of gravel beneath my barefeet and the cool healing of damp grass moments later. It is hair curled by humidity and the smudge of mud on your jeans; it is not caring about these things. It is naming constellations and not buildings; it is the release of a breath you didn’t know you were holding. It is vast and open, it is the freedom to laugh, to dance in the rain, to log off.
I love the city. I love the excitement of working among skyscrapers; every day there is somewhere new to explore, some way to expand your pallet and your mental map. There is history everywhere, if you look for it. I come outside myself in the city.
But is in the country that I come home.