It had been almost a year since I had ventured into a big city. From tiny Brownwood, thrust into the bustling city of Fort Worth, Texas. As soon as my mother and I approached, I could feel the energy of a thick, sweaty city engulfing me once again. I dipped my head underneath its waves and spent a moment savoring it, adjusting myself to the familiar warmth. My mother enjoyed her vacations, I thrived on them. Without the ever-so-often reawakening of a city, the reminder that life still moved beyond my walls, I would cease to exist.
The first moment I could I ran into the street, eager to walk; ready to explore. I had two days only, and I was determined to use them to the best of my abilities.
We ate in local cafe's while admiring the grandeur of her architecture. I drank it all in through the lens of a camera, which snapped constant pictures. We journeyed down a brick pathway just as twilight was settling over downtown. The streetlamps came on and everything burst to life. Singers on the streets came out, lamenting about the ole days of Ireland, the nightclubs lit up and bottles of alcohol could be viewed from the windows, and people bustled about on their way to wherever their whims might take them.
I am one of them.
I am standing on the brick walkway, memorizing every sensation. The temperature is perfect, just cool enough for a light sweater. I can smell alcohol, smoke, and fresh bread from the bakery behind me. My view is limited by where the streetlamps provide shelter from the engulfing dark. My fingers are running along a cement building, taller than all of the houses in my home put together. My mother escorts me to the hotel room.
I am not ready to retire.
Instead, I wait for her to fall into her roaring slumber, then perch myself in the windowsill. I place a Hilton pillow behind my head and plug myself into my mp3 player.
I watch the city below me as the sounds of a soft piano and bass guitar play behind me. They are simple, smooth, repetitive; yet also exciting. The notes combine to convey that something is waiting to happen. Something is building up.
The streetlights continue to play, not pausing when the sun sets like mine at home.
A group of motorcycles spins around the block several times. They are whooping and yelling. They are alive.
The music speeds up.
I watch people below me. A nightclub is placed in front of my window. I can see the girls stumbling out, the hookups happening right in front of my face.
This is what I thrive on.
This is what I need.
This is life.
The first moment I could I ran into the street, eager to walk; ready to explore. I had two days only, and I was determined to use them to the best of my abilities.
We ate in local cafe's while admiring the grandeur of her architecture. I drank it all in through the lens of a camera, which snapped constant pictures. We journeyed down a brick pathway just as twilight was settling over downtown. The streetlamps came on and everything burst to life. Singers on the streets came out, lamenting about the ole days of Ireland, the nightclubs lit up and bottles of alcohol could be viewed from the windows, and people bustled about on their way to wherever their whims might take them.
I am one of them.
I am standing on the brick walkway, memorizing every sensation. The temperature is perfect, just cool enough for a light sweater. I can smell alcohol, smoke, and fresh bread from the bakery behind me. My view is limited by where the streetlamps provide shelter from the engulfing dark. My fingers are running along a cement building, taller than all of the houses in my home put together. My mother escorts me to the hotel room.
I am not ready to retire.
Instead, I wait for her to fall into her roaring slumber, then perch myself in the windowsill. I place a Hilton pillow behind my head and plug myself into my mp3 player.
I watch the city below me as the sounds of a soft piano and bass guitar play behind me. They are simple, smooth, repetitive; yet also exciting. The notes combine to convey that something is waiting to happen. Something is building up.
The streetlights continue to play, not pausing when the sun sets like mine at home.
A group of motorcycles spins around the block several times. They are whooping and yelling. They are alive.
The music speeds up.
I watch people below me. A nightclub is placed in front of my window. I can see the girls stumbling out, the hookups happening right in front of my face.
This is what I thrive on.
This is what I need.
This is life.