Clinicism

If only I could see...

This is where I've been living for the past six months. By now, I've been around here long enough to not feel like an intruder. Comfortable? Physically, yes. By now, I know the streets well enough to not be intimidated by them, I've made my peace with the buses and trains that are few and far between, I've learned to not allow my stomach to turn at the sanitised feel of this place, have started to acknowledge, if not even appreciate, its impeccably manicured lawns and parks and the orderly, perfectly worded street signs, have tamed my blood from a raging boil to a muted simmer at the ruthless lines of its skylines and business suits, the cold efficiency with which the CBD functions, with its Red CATs chockful with crisp, ambitious hearts and heels. Heck, at times, I even genuinely chirrup and smile at my soy mocha dispensers. So does this mean I'm giving in? Have I resigned? Have I made my peace with this life?

Not even by a long shot. I walk here supported entirely by a pair of crutches, deprived of which I'm hopelessly handicapped. Joylessly empty. Beloved as she is to the people who call this place home, this city means nothing to me.