A city never dies. It grows old, but a city is immortal. One moment separates the fabric of time, yester moment was home and the next it is not, for a city can grow cold with age. My city once begged me to stay as I packed my bags, my memories clung to my feet, and my baby sister squeezed me ever so tight, she broke my heart.
I tried to kiss her tears away assuring her that I'll be back, and I left a city behind, home.
I'll never forget the first day I set foot away, an alien, in a world void of memories. I walked under cloudy mellow skies, in awe, a novice, relearning life; away from roots I had planted so deep back home.
But, you see, a city never dies, because regardless of where you are, home fights for dear life inside you, vigorously, giving your lonesomeness a bittersweet flavor of anguish. All that I held dear gave me features in a city of blank faces; I was color in a blank white page.
In color, I found home, away from an aging oriental city. But the fact remained, my love for the beautifully flawed warm cozy city was irreplaceable.
Simmering cold pearl showers couldn't change my mind, but they cloaked my features, and home couldn't recognize me when I returned. The warm city had grown cold, my memories turned against me, and I stood at square one.
Time however is a friend, and it was all I needed to rearrange the jigsaw I believed made sense before my departure. I am who and where I want to be now, and for that, I am very grateful.
Home can give you the cold shoulder, but it will never abandon you.