Sunday, January 10, 2016

dear los angeles,

i have a knack for loving places and leaving places.

in four years, you're my seventh love.

but you're also my last love for the duration of my undergrad career.

give me a month or two, and usually i'm ready to leave if i haven't already
thought of packing my bags in the initial week.

but already you're so different.

i didn't cry when my loved ones said their goodbyes to me yesterday.

i teared up last night when i thought of how much i miss a certain man
up north, but i didn't cry because i know that the possibility of coming home to him
is so near in the future.

i didn't cry in the middle of the night when the man yelling down below on the
street woke me up around 2:30, and again when sirens filled my room sometime before sunrise.

i didn't cry when i rolled over to see myself within a new room where i hardly know
anyone and where my few belongings look so out of place.

i didn't cry because i know that the golden globes are today (which does make me so happy),
or because i'm still in shock about this whole adventure.

dear los angeles,

i feel like i'm finally growing up.
you are so vast, but i remind myself that you are small in the grand scheme of the world.

you are so loud, but the memory of the mountains that rest off in the distance when i'm driving east on the 80 reminds me that solitude and quiet still persist in another life of mine.

you are so full of yourself, but i can be the same way.

you're here in my life for three months and three weeks, and that is but a blip in the entirety of my life.

you are gritty and wild, but i tell myself about how at peace i can become when tucked away in the corner of a coffee shop.

you are an idol in yourself, and people come to see you merely for the sake of becoming idols themselves, but that man in my life asked me on monday what success means to me and since then i've been learning that success doesn't mean you or an idol. so, just like that, i am free of all expectation of what i once believed you could give me.

los angeles, you can't give me success so i won't ask for it. i won't ask for more opportunity, or for recognition.

instead, i ask that you give me good people and long conversations. i ask that your streets give me a landscape to write about. i ask that you steady time so that i can be present but also advance toward the coming chapters that prove to be just as exciting.

i may come to love you, los angeles.
and, though you need not love me back, i ask that you treat me well.

some might argue that you use people and then spit them out.

but people are capable of doing that,
not places.

so keep me safe,
amuse me,
and then let me go come april.

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