I am not good at writing poems; to be honest, I’ve
never tried (they are not my thing). I really admire all these people writing short
poems about anything in particular. All these beautiful short stories, lovely
poems dedicated to a lover, a family member, a friend… I am not good at writing
poems, but I adore writing stories (if I am good or bad at it… I don’t really
care). Here it goes: my city.
I love my city, but I guess I was not that sure
about it a few years ago. I assume it is quite difficult to see the things surrounding
you… those you see every day.
I’ve talked about this a lot. For some time, it
was difficult for me to accept I was not fearless; and I blamed it on everybody…
including the place I live in. I was not happy and, at the same time, I was unable
to find a way to change that.
But things are different now. I adore walking through these streets, passing
by all this history surrounding me. I tend to think about all the humans I’ve
shared that place with, and it is breath-taking in a way. The smells (the goods ones, at least), the
people… they are singular and yet so important in my memory. I could write about all the places I would recommend everybody to visit, but this is not the purpose of this post (I could do that someday...).
However, I will never see it with the eyes of a
foreigner and it is quite disappointing. We live our lives and we don’t
look at all those things next to us, just around the corner.
The truth is, it is difficult for me to feel at home, and now… this city feels like it again. For the first time in ages, I feel I could have a future in here; I don’t have the need to go to the other side of the world (and that is quite new to me).
When everything goes wrong, it is tricky to appreciate
all these things, to appreciate your life… and now I am doing it. I feel
absolutely happy about it.
This is it, this is my city.
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