I have plans to make a life in this city.

I've lived all my years and have planned my future right here. I have no ambitions of living in a beige parisian flat, in a high skyscraper in the states or by a shore of a shallow gray lake of some little European town. I don't have visions of what my life would be like in an alien land, for I've never once spared myself the thought.

I've never felt home in this city but I walk it's streets with hope that someday whoever finds home in me likes it here and I begin to see this hollow place differently.

This city is dirty. The dust blinds my eye sometimes and most days I can't keep a straight face cause of the stench that shares this space with me. Despite the chaos and the horror, I've wanted to live here, chosen to, but somehow everytime I see a mural in an old broken down wall, I get a restless feeling. Almost like it's my very last time seeing it. The fading neon of the houses that I see everyday, the pastel shades that were once bright and jolly, make me nostalgic of something I've never had the privilege of experiencing.

I almost always get a sickening feeling in my gut like I'm running from the life that I'm living. It's simultaneous and contradictory but I can't help feeling like I'm on a quest to jump out of my skin and escape this life.

I don't know what this city makes me feel at dusk, I haven't found names for these feelings yet but they petrify me because even when I'm so sure, so decisive of leaving my traces here, of living and giving here, it makes me feel like all I'm doing and have done is drift. Like I'm slowly fading out of everyone's memory and out of sync with the city I once so perfectly fit into.

Maybe I'm too blind, too gullible to see that I am. Maybe I'm not the last missing piece this city needs like I made myself believe. Maybe I was enthralled by the ruthless love of a place I had to abandon, captivated by the thought of never having to leave again. Maybe afterall, I am not meant to stay.

I don't have a home yet.