It sometimes seems so alive. The sound of cars honking, children laughing and mothers sighing in content. It bustles with movement. Like a well old machine that grunts and squeaks in rotation; it is never still nor silent. I've grown so accustomed to the sounds of the city, that they've become my nightly lullaby. Gently rocking me to sleep and singing a sweet tune that is so familiar. This is my city.
The morning sunrise bounces off the windows of the skyscrapers above, sparkling and bathing the streets below in a silver light. The people on the sidewalks scamper about on their daily commute-- lost in their own thoughts.
There are so many faces. Beautiful strangers; some of whom I know. There's the old man who sits on the corner of E. Trade and Tryon, belting out old Motown classics. His deep baritone voice beckoning you closer and asking you to stay a little while longer.
Then two blocks away sits a lonely man, telling anyone who will listen about his glory days in the military. He'll tell you about his friends that he lost along the way. He'll tell you about the love of his life. He'll tell you such magnificent tales.
On the corner of S. Tryon the smell of fresh croissants wafts from Amelies. There the college kids gather to study and discuss their future plans over their oversized mugs of coffee. Every semester, there's a whole new crop of faces. Some unsure of where they belong. Months later, they will have found their place, and will look on as the new kids step through the doors, searching for their place to belong.
I am them and they are me. This is the city in which I live.