The city is a thousand different worlds,
Each barely overlapping with the next.
So many buildings that are only scenery to me;
So many doors wherein I have never been.

The city is my home, but it is only when
I open my eyes and look above my feet
That I realise how little I know it.

Some days, I visit the realms that are
Not mine, those of which I will never be
A part, just to remind myself that
All I see is not all there is.

*
My arm aches from not writing enough,
And suddenly I see how much I need this:
This space to remember who I was, to be
Who I still am, to see where I am not
And why it is good to be here.

*
Her speech is straight and upright, like her
Posture, and her hair is tidier than she should
Have time to make it. Autumn comes with
Knitwear and jeans, and long sleeved hands
Huddled around cups of tea to keep mind and
Body warm. Her hat even has a bobble.

When I was her age, we fought to shake off the
Shackles of being parented, eager to find
Our own path even if it might be a bumpy one.
Now it seems like they hold fast to the
Comforts of childhood, wrapping themselves up
Tightly so they cannot spread their wings.

What do they see that my generation did not?
Have they achieved clarity or obfuscation?
I feel so much further from the generation after
Than from the one before. Is it my imagination,
Or are they really in another world?

10/06/2014

Posted on 10/14/2014
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