It’s easy to be dead in a suburb.
It’s easy to drift into the background, to disconnect yourself from the situations and people and places and words and momentary ecstacies which set your heart on fire.
And it’s funny how quickly you forget; how quickly the perfect, joyful pain of real life becomes unfamiliar.
But if you’re truly a child of the city; if you’ve ever tied the rhythms of your heart to it; bled with it and healed with it and trudged through it and skipped across it, it never leaves you.
Living amongst it again, the tangle of experiences and emotions pulls you back in, so tightly weaved that sometimes all you know is that this is experience, good mixed with bad and perfect mixed with stomach-wrenching, the edges blurred beyond comprehension.
And it floods back in, an old neglected friend, filling you with the indefinable sense of being wonderfully alive. And you know that, whether your alloted days are many or few, there will always be more to take by the horns and laugh and cry and sing and dream about.
And this is life. Live it, with all its ups and downs and ins and outs; the “yes” and the “no” and sometimes the “maybe”. Because the only alternative is to lie down in your grave again and die slowly over a period of decades.
It’s been a long, slow, fast, weird psychological/emotional rollercoaster of a week, and I’m sleep-deprived and maybe slightly drunk and definitely confused. And it sure as hell isn’t over yet.
But I’m surely alive, every heartbeat measured carefully and savoured; every sigh heard as loud as a heartfelt scream and every smile as dazzling as the unfiltered sunlight.
And still I love it.
And I always will.