Windy City

Home. Far away. This place is a great many things. It is a gloomy place and the artist who paints the sky uses only grey. At rare moments we observe as the city swims in sunlight and ice-cream is on sale at the kiosks. This is the city that contradict itself. A concrete jungle defined by its mood-swings. Plagued by frequent hurricanes during the winter and waves of tourists during the summer. A place synonymous with joy in so many children's hearts and a place filled with violence according to the news. The place where I spend my childhood summers is now also the place where I got shot. The place that was so distant I thought it was located in a different country. The place I now call home.

This is a divided city. A place where the nouveau-riche live in the old worker-quarters and the families that struggle to get by live in massive apartment blocks outside the city. This is the place where the red danger marches and where the conservative rule the media. This is the place that holds a week long Pride Parade and where the racists and homophobes march in protest.

I've lived in the same apartment during these last three years. Same rooms but with very different people. Here I have endured domestic abuse, lived with my best friend and met my soul mate. I have had three different jobs and equally as many boyfriends. I've called the cops four times from the window of my apartment. There has been two riots in my neighborhood and ten times as many bar fights.

I've dumped and been dumped. I've laughed 'til I cried and cried 'til I laughed. I have had my share of mood-swings along with the city. I've been happy, horny, sad, drunk, high and overjoyed. I have loved it here, but the wilderness calls me home and I will answer. I'm moving far away. I'm moving home.